THREE    CROWNS. 


By  the  Author  of 


CHRISTUS      VICTOR. 


BOSTON: 

WILLIAM     V.      SPENCER. 
1866. 


CAMBRIDGE: 
PRESS   OF  JOHN   WILSON   AND   SONS. 


TS 
3S07 


CONTENTS 


MARGRET i 

PAUL  AND  BERNARD 38 

KASPAR  AND  GERTRUDE 92 


7G2398 


THREE    CROWNS. 


MARGRET. 

IT  is  not  dark,  although  the  sun  has  set : 

A  faint  and  rosy  light  is  lingering  yet, 

In  air,  on  earth,  and  sea,  o'er  hill  and  plain,  — 

The  promise  of  the  sun  to  come  again. 

'Tis  summer :  at  an  open  window  stands 
A  lady  with  a  letter  in  her  hands  ; 
There  is  no  sorrow  yet  upon  her  face,  — 
As  yet  no  bitter  tears  have  left  their  trace. 

She  looks  like  one  who  has  not  waked  to  life  ; 
Who  stands  as  yet  outside  its  rush  and  strife  : 
She  is  not  dead  nor  cold  ;  she  slumbers  now,  — 
Repose  in  life  is  written  on  her  brow. 

You  see  the  fuel  for  the  fire  is  there  ; 
It  needeth  but  the  match  to  flame  and  flare  : 
The  pulses  of  that  heart  can  bound  and  leap  ; 
Now  beating  gently  as  a  child's  in  sleep, 
i 


MARGRET. 

And  yet  the  letter  that  she's  holding  there, 

Is  big  with  fate  for  her  and  one  elsewhere  : 

"  This  answer  pleases  him,  so  I'm  content." 

She  murmurs,  "  What  I've  written  must  be  sent." 

She  finds  her  messenger,  who  speeds  away  ; 
And  then  returns  to  watch  departing  day  : 
She  looks  towards  the  sea,  and  murmurs  low, 
It  makes  me  happy  to  relieve  his  woe. 

How  sweet  it  is  to  soothe  another's  pain, 
To  wake  the  sunlight  in  a  heart  again  ! 
He  wrote,  I  have  not  smiled  since  that  sad  day 
I  said,  She  loves  me  not,  and  sailed  away. 

Poor  Philip,  tossing  on  that  restless  sea, 
This  letter  will  bring  peace  and  joy  to  thee  ! 
I  think  that  with  my  lot  I  am  content, 
Great  happiness  for  me  perhaps  not  meant. 

I  think  in  time  I  shall  love  Philip  well : 

I  think  our  souls  in  harmony  can  dwell ; 

That  mighty  Passion  which  has  swayed  the  world, 

And  souls  of  men  from  life  to  death  has  hurled, 

In  mercy,  I  must  think,  has  passed  me  by ; 
I  have  not  felt  its  grasp  of  agony  : 
My  love  is  quiet,  feeleth  no  alarm, 
Knoweth  no  ecstasy,  feareth  no  harm. 


MARGRET. 

With  Philip,  I  am  master  of  my  life  : 

Though  I  will  be  a  loved,  obedient  wife, 

I  sometimes  wonder  if  another  soul 

Could  wrest  the  helm  from  me,  and  take  control, 

And  at  his  pleasure  make  me  sink  or  swim, 
Hoist  sail  or  anchor  at  a  word  from  him  : 
Oh  what  a  fearful  power  for  man  to  hold, 
Unless  his  soul  by  God's  high  hand  controlled  ! 

My  Philip  says,  with  me  alone  the  power 
To  shield  and  save  him  in  temptation's  hour  ; 
He  says  that  I  am  far  more  strong  than  he  : 
'Tis  sometimes  thus  ;  but  ought  it  so  to  be? 

Did  I  say  ought,  since  God  alone  doth  give 
The  strength  by  which  we  help  the  weak  to  live? 
If  He  makes  strong,  shall  I  prefer  to  be 
A  woman  weak  because  it  pleaseth  me? 

I  shall  have  God  to  lean  upon,  and  guide  : 
If  Philip  falters,  Christ  is  at  my  side  ; 
My  husband's  faults  shall  be  forgot  in  love  ; 
All  human  strength  is  weakness  seen  above. 

Wre  know  Christ  lighteth  every  soul  that  comes 
Into  this  world  :  sometimes  that  light  becomes 
Feeble  and  dim  ;  Christ  lays  his  royal  hand 
Upon  some  child  of  earth,  with  this  command  :  — 


MARGRET. 

Go  thou,  and  tend  for  me  that  sacred  fire  ; 

Watch  well,  and  see  the  flame  doth  not  expire  : 

Thy  hand  is  feeble,  but  I'll  hold  it  firm  ; 

How  strong  thou  art  through  me,  I'll  make  thee  learn. 

Perhaps  Christ  gives  a  charge  like  that  to  me  ; 

I  hold  such  thought  in  deep  humility  : 

I  feel,  I  think  I  have  decided  right ; 

At  least  for  him  I've  made  great  darkness  light. 

Sleep  soft  and  well,  my  sailor  brave, 

Upon  the  moonlit  sea  ; 
Into  a  faithful  hand  I  gave 

A  word  from  me  to  thee. 

Dream  of  a  hope  at  last  fulfilled, 

Of  love  that  will  abide  ; 
Dream  of  a  storm  that  has  been  stilled, 

Dream  of  a  turning  tide. 

Dream  thy  great  wave  of  love  and  tears 

Has  broken  on  the  shore, 
But  at  the  feet  of  one  who  hears 

And  bids  thee  weep  no  more. 

Dream  of  a  heart  that  will  not  shrink 

From  any  form  of  ill ; 
Though  in  a  gulf  of  woe  should  sink, 

Be  faithful  to  thee  still. 


MARGRET. 

How  beautiful  the  Earth  doth  look  to-night ! 
He  seems  enamoured  with  the  moon's  pale  light ; 
Drinking  it  in  at  every  hungry  pore, 
As  if  they  two  had  never  met  before. 

He  seems  so  ready  to  forget,  forgive 
How  oft  the  treacherous  lady  makes  him  grieve  ; 
Why  treacherous  ?     Earth's  heart  is  very  wide  ; 
She  cannot  always  shine  on  every  side. 

If  she  is  frowning  here,  she's  smiling  there  : 
I  tli ink  we  do  belie  the  lady  fair  ; 
Perhaps  behind  a  cloud  she  hides  her  face, 
That  she  may  witness  not  the  Earth's  disgrace. 

She  turns  in  loathing  from  some  dreadful  crime, 

And  sails  away  to  light  another  clime  ; 

They  say  it  is  the  same  where'er  she  goes, 

Earth  groans  and  bleeds  and  bends  beneath  his  woes. 

Can  it  be  true  there's  so  much  grief  on  earth? 
With  me  at  least  it  has  not  come  to  birth. 
I  lift  my  heart  in  gratitude  to  Heaven  ; 
To  me  on  earth  at  least  a  life  is  given. 

Quite  easy  now  it  seems  to  turn  aside 

From  the  broad  pathway  dangerous  and  wide  : 

I  do  not  think  that  any  human  love 

Could  make  me  turn  my  face  from  God  above. 


0  MARGRET. 

Could  love  be  turned  to  hatred  in  mv  heart? 
A  sweet  affection  prove  a  poisoned  dart? 
If  I  should  have  no  right  my  head  to  lay 
Upon  a  breast  beloved,  could  I  not  pray 

She  might  be  spared  and  blest  who  slumbered  there? 
Should  I  not  have  the  strength  that  sight  to  bear? 
They  say  such  things  have  driven  women  mad  : 

1  cannot  tell ;  these  thoughts  have  made  me  sad. 

I  am  oppressed  with  grief: 
Father,  give  me  relief, 

Speak  to  my  soul ; 
Tell  me  Thou  wilt  prevail  ; 
If  sin  should  me  assail, 

The  storm  control. 

These  fears  are  new  to  me, 
But  I  am  known  to  Thee  ; 

Draw  near,  draw  near  : 
I  thought  I  loved  Thee  well  ; 
Alas  !   I  cannot  tell 

If  Thou  art  here. 

Here  in  this  heart  of  mine, 
I  thought  was  wholly  Thine, 

What  proof  have  I, 
If  sin  should  come  to  me, 
I  should  victorious  be, 

That  I  should  flv 


MARGRET. 

To  Thee,  and  be  content 
With  that  thy  love  had  sent, 

Though  hard  to  bear  ; 
If  slain,  should  love  Thee  still, 
And  to  Thy  holy  will 

Bow  down  in  prayer? 

Oh,  let  no  human  face 
Take  that  accursed  place 

'Tween  Thee  and  me  ! 
Let  not  man  stand  between, 
A  fatal,  damning  screen, 

The  soul  and  Thee. 

However  grand  he  be, 
Thou  must  be  first  with  me  ; 

He  must  go  down  : 
Be  he  of  royal  birth, 
'Tis  not  for  child  of  earth 

To  wear  that  crown. 

If  passion  is  so  strong, 
Doth  not  to  Thee  belong 

Still  greater  strength  ? 
Must  not  Earth's  deadliest  foes 
Yield,  after  sternest  blows, 

To  Thee  at  length  ? 

Ah,  no  !  I  will  not  fear  : 
Thou  hast  not  placed  us  here 
To  faint  and  fall ; 


MARGRET. 

This  mighty,  human  love 
Speaks  of  the  God  above, 
Stronger  than  all. 

She  rises  from  her  knees  ;  peace  has  returned.  — 
That  childlike  faith  in  good  for  which  she  yearned  : 
"Whence  came  this  storm  of  fear  which  shook  me  so. 
I  who  have  never  felt  the  touch  of  woe  ? 

I  will  not  think  such  tragedies  are  done 
Upon  this  brave  old  world  beneath  the  sun  ; 
I'll  not  believe  men  sin  and  suffer  so  : 
These  human  lives  through  blood  and  fire  flow. 

Now  I  will  think  of  Philip  ;  trust  that  we 
May  sail  in  peace  across  a  summer  sea. 
Must  the  waves  roar  and  fatal  storms  arise 
To  make  the  sailor  lift  to  Heaven  his  eyes? 

Must  there  be  tempest,  shipwreck,  mortal  fear, 
To  make  him  glad  to  know  the  harbor  near? 
I  cannot  tell :   I  know  I'm  not  afraid 
To  trust  to  God  the  hearts  that  He  has  made." 


Two  months  sped  on  ;  no  outward  change  had  come 

Upon  the  quiet  life  of  Margrct's  home  : 

Philip  had  written  that  he  could  not  tell 

How  blessed  he  was,  how  happy,  and  how  well. 


MARGRET. 

The  autumn  in  its  beauty  came  and  went : 
Another  letter  o'er  the  sea  is  sent ; 
Now  Philip  writes,  "  My  ship  I  cannot  leave, 
Though  for  each  day's  delay  I  deeply  grieve. 

Dear  Margret,  when  the  August  moon  is  round, 
I  trust  at  your  dear  side  I  shall  be  found  ; 
Then  I  hope,  darling,  I  shall  read  more  love 
In  your  blue  eyes  than  your  kind  letters  prove. 

They  touch  like  hands  of  ice  my  heart  of  flame, 
But  yet  I  may  be  wrong  great  love  to  claim  : 
Women  perhaps  do  never  feel  as  we  ; 
They  do  not  love  with  our  intensity. 

How  feeble,  Margret,  is  thy  love  to  mine  ! 
Its  color  is  as  water  to  the  wine  : 
Try  to  love  Philip  yet  a  little  more  ; 
My  heart  and  life  break  only  on  thy  shore. 

Thou  canst  lead  up  to  Heaven,  or  down  to  Hell, 
The  soul  that  loves  thee,  Margret,  but  too  well ; 
My  nature,  in  its  depth  unknown  before. 
But  thou  hast  stirred  me  to  my  inmost  core. 

Thou  art  aware  how  dark  and  strange  and  sad 
My  nature  is  ;  but  thou  canst  make  it  glad  : 
The  needle  of  my  soul  points  but  to  thee  ; 
If  thou  shouldst  fail  me,  I  a  wreck  should  be. 


IO  MARGRET. 

Perhaps  'tis  selfish,  Margrct,  so  to  speak. 
Is  it  my  love  for  thee  that  makes  me  weak? 
The  thought  sometimes  will  come,  I  am  not  clear 
I  stagger,  sink,  beneath  that  monstrous  fear. 

Give  to  my  sea  of  love  one  drop,  I  pray  ; 
I  give  a  sun  of  light,  —  spare  me  one  ray  : 
Is  not  my  gift  a  whole,  full  heart  to  thee? 
Oh  do  not,  Margret,  give  a  part  to  me  ! 

Pardon  me,  dearest ;  thou  dost  give,  I  know, 
All  that  thou  hast  to  give  :   thy  love  will  grow 
When  thou  art  wholly  mine  ;  then  I  shall  see 
How  my  devotion  begets  love  in  thee." 

Margret,  crushing  that  letter  in  her  hands, 
Pale  as  the  lifeless  stone  near  which  she  stands : 
"My  God.  be  merciful ;   strengthen.  I  plead  : 
Thy  grace  and  power  I  now  do  greatly  need. 

Thou  loving  heart,  dear  Philip,  Philip  mine,  — 
Am  I  a  traitress  to  that  heart  of  thine? 
A  traitress,  I !  not  outwardly,  but  here, 
Here  in  my  heart,  do  I  not  hold  thee  dear? 

Philip,  forgive  me  ;  I  have  struggled,  bled, 
To  turn  the  shaft  from  thy  beloved  head  : 
Blindness  I  wish  had  closed  these  eyes  of  mine 
Ere  they  had  seen  another  face  than  thine. 


MARGRET.  I  I 

I  have  not  wronged  thee  by  one  word  or  sign  ; 
No  eye  hath  seen  this  treachery  of  mine  ; 
He  who  broke  in  upon  my  peaceful  rest 
Has  never  guessed  the  secret  of  my  breast. 

I  felt  'twas  not  for  me  to  pass  my  day 
In  idle  pleasure  with  the  young  and  gay, 
When  thou  wast  fighting  for  thy  country's  life, 
Bearing  thy  manly  part  in  her  great  strife. 

Most  just  and  lawful  seemed  that  strife  to  thee  : 
That  war  was  right,  I  doubted  ;  could  not  see 
That  we  were  ever  forced  the  sword  to  wield  : 
I  thought  by  other  means  we  might  be  healed. 

I  said,  But  he's  in  danger  on  the  sea  : 
Where  is  the  fitting  place  for  me  to  be? 
How  can  I  please  and  serve  my  Philip  best? 
How  prove  me  worthy  of  that  faithful  breast? 

In  hospitals,  to  sickness,  sorrow,  pain, 

I'll  minister  till  he  come  home  again  : 

I  little  thought  those  walls  could  wake  for  me 

Passion  from  which  I  thought  my  heart  was  free. 

But  there,  'midst  death,  disease,  and  sore  distress, 
Moved  one  whose  office  was  to  heal  and  bless  : 
Alas  for  me  !  that  touch  wrought  only  pain, 
And  wound  about  my  heart  a  cruel  chain. 


MARGRET. 

In  war,  that  standard  only  would  he  bear ; 
The  healing  mission  only  would  he  share  : 
Resolved  his  hand  never  a  blow  should  give, 
But  rather  strive  to  bid  the  wounded  live. 

No  one  could  say  his  was  the  coward's  plea, 
For  always  foremost  in  the  danger  he  : 
He  could  not  argue,  but  felt  war  was  wrong ; 
At  least,  he  could  not  in  her  ranks  belong. 

Daily  we  met :  slowly,  to  me  unknown, 

The  links  were  forged,  until  the  chain  had  grown 

So  tight,  so  heavy,  that  it  crushed  my  side  ; 

I  screamed  with  pain,  —  the  truth  I  could  not  hide. 

I  did  not  think  such  tempest  in  me  lay  ; 

I  did  not  know  that  any  soul  could  sway 

My  spirit  thus,  and  hurl  me  here  and  there, 

Now  stilled  with  joy,  now  maddened  with  despair. 

I  saw  he  held  me  with  a  grasp  of  steel : 
But  not  to  him  his  power  would  I  reveal  ; 
I  trod  upon  my  heart,  and  made  no  moan, 
As  if  the  flesh  and  blood  were  wood  and  stone. 


I  rcsolutelv  turned  my  face  away  ; 
Upon  that  battle-field  I  would  not  stav  : 
Dangers  there  are  so  great,  the  brave  must  fly ; 
Those  are  the  cowards  who  remain  to  die. 


MARGRET.  13 

I  cut  with  ruthless  hand  each  quivering  nerve  ; 
Body  and  spirit  moaned,  I  did  not  swerve  : 
I  said,  This  mighty  passion  shall  not  stand  ; 
Of  my  own  soul  I  will  not  lose  command. 

I  will  be  true  to  Philip  if  I  die  ; 
I  will  not  brand  my  soul  with  treachery  : 
My  Philip  yet  shall  reign,  and  reign  alone  ; 
I'll  put  the  rightful  king  upon  the  throne. 

I  did  not  think  the  step  I  took  could  grieve 
The  heart  of  him  whom  I  was  bound  to  leave  : 
Foolish  was  I  to  deem  the  shaft  had  come 
So  straightly,  swiftly,  and  so  surely  home, 

Had  he  not  dipped  the  point  in  his  own  blood, 
Had  it  not  tasted  first  that  crimson  flood : 
Directly  from  his  heart  to  mine  it  came  : 
A  loving  hand  takes  an  unfailing  aim. 

Am  I  not  right  to  cling  to  Philip  still, 
To  keep  my  faith  to  him,  come  good  or  ill? 
Will  not  God  help  me  tread  temptation  down, 
And  to  the  rightful  head  restore  the  crown  ? 

But  am  I  right?     Sometimes  I  cannot  tell : 
My  soul  has  often  asked  if  all  is  well ; 
Do  I  give  Philip  a  divided  heart? 
Do  I  receive  a  whole,  and  give  a  part? 


14  MAUGRET. 

Sorrow  must  fall  on  one  :  which  must  it  be? 
My  heart  bleeds,  Philip,  when  I  think  of  thee  : 
Thou  wert  not  made  to  live  and  die  alone  ; 
Have  I  not  promised  to  become  thine  own? 

Richard  is  strong;  a  soul  like  his  mounts  higher, 

If  in  its  youth  it  is  baptized  with  fire  : 

If  the  same  waters  over  Philip  roll, 

They  quench  the  light  now  burning  in  his  soul. 

Richard  will  rise  again,  for  he  is  king: 

Another  heart  to  him  will  comfort  bring  ; 

Some  weak,  frail  child,  who  needs  his  stalwart  breast, 

To  lean  upon,  —  a  home  where  she  can  rest. 

The  waves  of  Philip's  heart  break  at  my  feet ; 
Those  bitter  waters  I  may  turn  to  sweet : 
That  dark  and  troubled  sea  has  much  to  tell ; 
To  that  sad  story  I  shall  listen  well. 

When  the  storm  rages,  I  shall  speak  of  peace, 
Of  Him  who  bade  the  howling  winds  to  cease  ; 
With  help  of  God,  I  trust  to  me  'tis  given 
To  make  that  sea  reflect  the  light  of  heaven. 

Those  feet  already  seek  the  narrow  way  ; 

'Tis  mine  to  see  they  do  not  from  it  stray  : 

Many  there  are  who  cannot  walk  alone  ; 

They  must  be  led,  if  they  would  reach  God's  throne. 


MARGRET.  15 

A  soul  must  not  be  sent  to  us  in  vain  : 
Christ  gives  a  solemn  charge,  I  come  again  ; 
Thy  brother's  keeper  thou  perforce  must  be,  — 
His  blood  I  surely  shall  require  of  thee. 

Sometimes  the  only  weapon  we  can  bear 
Within  our  weak  and  trembling  arms  is  prayer  ; 
Then  with  that  weapon  we  must  ceaseless  fight 
Till  every  foe  has  vanished  from  our  sight. 

If  I  should  find  I'm  weaker  than  I  thought, 
That  in  a  hopeless  net  my  life  is  caught, 
Unto  his  heart  I  will  my  own  disclose, 
And  on  his  generosity  repose. 

For  without  love  it  must  be  sin  to  wed  ; 
We  cannot  look  for  blessing  on  the  head  : 
If  love  has  flown  for  ever  from  the  heart, 
Then  own  the  tioith,  not  act  the  liar's  part. 

Perhaps  I  took  a  sinful  step  at  first ; 
Perhaps  such  union  would  be  simply  cursed  : 
I  will  not  take  a  second  step  of  sin,  — 
Because  I  took  the  first,  go  deeper  in. 

I'll  prove  myself:  I  trust  I  shall  not  need 
To  torture  him  ;  I  think  I  shall  succeed 
To  bring  my  heart  to  his  dear  feet  once  more, 
To  love  him  even  better  than  before." 


I 6  MARGRET. 

Nine  months  had  passed,  and  they  had  left  their  trace 
In  quietness  and  strength  on  Margret's  face  : 
She  sat  alone,  and  cried,  "  Thou  restless  sea, 
Peace  comes  to  all ;  why  is  there  none  for  thee  ? 

Hast  thou  such  mighty  sorrows  in  thy  heart 
That  thou  canst  never  wholly  with  them  part? 
Hast  thou  such  awful  secrets  in  thy  breast 
That  thou  canst  never  find  a  perfect  rest? 

Must  thou  remember,  when  the  storm  is  past, 
Another  is  to  come,  nor  that  the  last  ? 
Why  not  accept  the  present  peace  that  flows  ? 
Why  vex  thy  o'er-taxed  heart  with  future  woes? 

The  Seer  of  Patmos  said  there  should  not  be 
A  place  reserved  in  heaven  for  thee,  O  sea  ! 
The  words  fall  sadly  always  on  my  ear, 
So  sweet  it  is  on  earth  thee  to  be  near. 

Is  it,  that  in  that  region  of  the  blest 
There  must  be  nought  that  knows  not  how  to  rest? 
That  in  the  realm  where  storm  and  discord  cease 
There  must  be  nothing  that  refuseth  peace? 

Lost  in  my  Father's  arms  are  all  my  fears  ; 
I'll  trust  His  strength  through  all  my  coming  years,  — 
Yes,  even  now  :  my  heart  be  brave  ;  'tis  he, 
Roger,  the  soldier  ;  yes,  he  comes  for  me." 


MARGRET.  1 7 

"  Madam,"  he  said,  "  King  Richard,  as  we  call 
Our  loved  physician,  and  the  friend  of  allr 
Has  ta'en  the  fever ;  and  will  die,  I  fear, 
Unless  divine  and  human  aid  are  near. 

Last  night  I  watched  with  him  :  dreams  haunt  his  sleep  ; 
He  waked  and  screamed,  Poor,  watch,  in  sooth,  ye  keep : 
I  saw  her  pass  just  now  the  outer  gate  ; 
I  heard  her  cry,  No  hope  ;  too  late,  too  late  ! 

He  seems  to  search  for  what  he  cannot  find. 
He  says,  She  must  be  here :  you  all  are  blind. 
I  die,  he  groans :  she  will  not  come  to  me  ; 
Her  heart  is  with  her  sailor  on  the  sea. 

Madam,  these  troubled  thoughts,  to  me  it  seems, 
Come  from  imperfect  sleep,  disturbed  dreams : 
One  night  of  rest  this  fever's  power  would  break. 
Will  you  not,  lady,  for  King  Richard's  sake, 

Come  back  once  more,  and  see  what  you  can  do  ? 
No  nurse  so  skilful  and  so  calm  as  you. 
Perhaps  your  gentle  voice  might  drive  away 
These  fearful  thoughts  that  haunt  him  night  and  day. 

A  song  of  yours  might  creep  into  his  brain, 
Quiet  those  pulses  throbbing  now  with  pain, 
And  harmonize  once  more  those  shattered  strings : 
Always  to  him  such  power  music  brings. 


iS  MARGRET. 

A  sweeter  instrument  could  not  be  found  : 
Till  now  it  never  gave  discordant  sound  ; 
Your  hand  might  strike  that  magic,  hidden  key 
Which  would  restore  the  whole  to  harmony." 

He  paused.     She  answered,  "I  will  come,  if  well. 

I  doubt,  I  fear :  'tis  very  hard  to  tell 

What  course  is  best  in  such  a  fearful  strait." 

He  pleaded,  "  Come  ;  and  do  not  come  too  late." 

"  Philip,"  she  cried,  "  couldst  thou  thy  Margret  see, 
Thy  heart  with  tender  pitv  filled  would  be. 
Shall  I  refuse  to  go,  let  Richard  die,  — 
To  save  that  noble  life  refuse  to  try? 

Shall  I  be  false,  my  Philip,  if  I  go? 

Shall  I  forget  thee,  if  I  see  this  woe  ? 

Will  my  weak  heart  be  so  acutely  pained 

That  strength  will  vanish  which  from  God  I've  gained? 

Perhaps  that  spirit  I  could  soothe  to  peace  ; 
To  that  imprisoned  mind  might  bring  release  : 
For  I  have  heard  delirium  like  this 
Is  caused  and  cured  by  what  the  heart  doth  miss. 

If  the  poor  eyes  search  on,  and  search  in  vain, 
The  body  waneth  through  the  spirit's  pain  ; 
If  that  should  come  for  which  the  sick  soul  yearns, 
The  fever  ebbs,  and  strength  at  last  returns. 


MARGRET.  19 

I  from  the  first  had  surely  deemed  that  he 

Knew  that  my  heart  and  hand  were  pledged  to  thee  : 

I  find,  until  of  late,  he  did  not  know  ; 

And  'tis  this  grief  in  part  that  lays  him  low. 

Never  was  braver  soul  than  his  before. 
This  fever  struck  him,  when  his  heart  was  sore  : 
If  in  his  pride  of  strength,  no  eye  would  see 
This  grief  which  now  has  gained  the  mastery. 

Sickness  and  sorrow  joined,  a  giant  slay  ; 
Against  unequal  odds  the  strong  give  way. 
Richard,  I  come  ;  I  will  not  let  thee  die  : 
If  I  have  wounded,  now  to  heal  will  try. 

For  I  have  proved  the  power  of  prayer  too  well, 
That  I  should  fear  to  pass  the  gates  of  Hell ; 
I,  who  thought  life  a  quiet,  summer  sea, 
Knew  not  the  heights  and  depths  that  were  in  me. 

Felt  my  soul  mount  and  thrill  and  burn  and  glow. 
Thank  God,  I  did  not  cross  that  gulf  of  woe  : 
I  felt  the  fire  singe  my  feet  and  hair  ; 
I  started  back  with  pain  I  could  not  bear. 

The  thought  of  Philip  filled  me  with  remorse  ; 
That  sweet  affection  rushed  with  all  its  force 
Back  on  my  soul :  I  struggled  to  God's  feet ; 
Under  Thy  wings,  I  cried,  will  I  retreat, 


2O  MARGRET. 

Till  I  have  gained  such  grace  and  power  from  Thee : 

I  cannot  fail  to  win  the  victory. 

Never  did  soul  cry  thus,  and  cry  in  vain  : 

I  dwelt  with  God  ;  peace  came  at  last  again. 

If  man  with  faith  and  fervor  will  but  seek 
His  God,  the  only  refuge  of  the  weak, 
The  chains  of  sin  will  break,  and  he  will  rise, 
Shaking  the  dust  of  earth  from  heaven-lit  eyes. 

We  can  compel  our  hearts,  e'en  as  a  vine, 
To  bend  and  turn,  and  as  we  we  choose  to  twine  ; 
And  to  the  tree  round  which  we're  bound  to  cling, 
A  truer,  deeper  love  each  day  to  bring. 

I  bless  my  God  that  now  there  is  no  need 

That  Philip's  loving  heart  through  me  should  bleed  : 

For  in  my  soul  he  reigns,  and  reigns  alone ; 

And  he  is  mine,  as  I  am  all  his  own. 

And  if  it  is  not  fevered  passion's  glow, 
But  pure  affection,  it  is  better  so : 
My  love  for  Richard  would  have  grown  to  be 
A  soul-ensnaring,  mad  idolatry. 

Now  I  will  go  to  him ;  strong  through  the  God, 
Who  this  tempestuous  sea  with  me  has  trod  : 
There  would  be  danger  if  He  were  not  near ; 
My  hand  in  His,  I  nothing  have  to  fear." 


MARGRET.  21 

Father,  the  hour  draws  near ! 
I  hear  the  battle-cry,  and  I  must  go  : 
I  must  not  turn  my  back  upon  this  foe  ; 

With  thee  I  need  not  fear. 

Uphold,  and  I  shall  win  ; 
I  must  not  faint  nor  falter  on  the  field  : 
Do  thou  supply  the  strength  my  sword  to  wield, 

And  to  my  heart  come  in. 

Oh  !  do  not  let  me  fall : 
Remember  all  my  prayers  and  all  my  tears, 
Increase  my  faith,  and  banish  all  my  fears ; 

For  unto  Thee  I  call. 

I  should  not  dare  to  take 
One  forward  step,  nor  dare  to  deal  one  blow, 
Did  I  not  feel  Thee  near,  did  I  not  know 

Thy  breast  my  shield  will  make. 

Beneath  me  is  Thine  arm, 
My  hand  in  Thine.     Now  I  can  safely  look 
On  that  which  once  my  inmost  being  shook  ; 

Now  I  can  feel  no  harm. 

My  pulse  is  quiet  now : 

Its  throbbing  anguish  Thou  in  mercy  stilled, 
My  breaking  heart  Thou  with  Thy  peace  hast  filled, 

Thy  seal  is  on  my  brow. 


22  MARGRET. 

Affection's  gentle  wave, 

Which  from  my  heart  was  ebbing  fast  away, 
Flowed  back  at  thy  dread  word,  resumed  its  sway, 

Laid  Passion  in  its  grave. 

And  now  I  do  beseech 

That  Thou  wilt  grant  his  precious  life  to  me  ; 
Body  and  mind  restored,  oh  let  me  see : 

Now  in  thy  wisdom  teach 

The  words  that  I  shall  say ; 
Go  with  me  to  his  side,  and  give  me  power 
To  soothe  and  bless  him  in  this  fearful  hour  ; 

Now  hear  me  when  I  pray. 

Our  souls  in  life  have  met, 

Our  paths  have  crossed ;  now  here  they  must  divide 
Go  with  us  both,  with  him,  with  me  abide  ; 

Our  eyes  with  tears  are  wet. 

The  shock  was  strong  and  great ; 
It  drew  the  blood  alike  from  him  and  me  : 
My  wound  is  healed,  I  pray  that  his  may  be  ; 

Father,  for  this  I  wait. 

No  chance  it  was,  I  know ; 
No  evil  angel  brought  us  face  to  face  : 
Thy  mercy  and  thy  wisdom  here  I  trace  ; 

Thou  didst  appoint  this  woe, 


MARGRET.  23 

Because  Thou  knewest  well 
A  shadow  dark  must  pass  across  each  soul, 
Ere  it  would  bow  and  yield  to  Thy  control, 

And  at  thy  feet  would  dwell. 

Let  not  the  angel  go 

Till  on  each  head,  from  his  retreating  wings, 
A  blessing  drops,  until  in  heaven  he  sings, 

"  'Tis  well  with  them,  I  know." 

Margret  had  knelt  in  prayer  at  close  of  day : 
Within  a  hospital  not  far  there  lay 
A  dying  man,  it  seemed  ;  they  murmured  low, 
"  King  Richard  dies,  and  leaves  us  in  our  woe." 

They  crept  from  beds  of  pain  to  see  their  King 
Crippled  and  helpless  :  all  had  tears  to  bring ; 
One  cried,  "  Will  God  strike  down  a  noble  tree, 
And  leave  a  useless  trunk  on  earth  like  me  ? 

Thou  valiant  soul,  oh  could  I  die  for  thee  ! 
Thou  gentle,  royal  Richard,  can  it  be 
That  we  shall  never  hear  thy  voice  again, 
After  the  din  of  battle,  soothe  in  pain? 

And  can  death  settle  on  that  stalwart  frame  ? 
What  right  hast  thou  such  strength  and  youth  to  claim? 
Touch  not  our  Richard,  strike  thy  dart  elsewhere  ; 
I,  who  have  never  prayed,  bow  down  in  prayer. 


24  MARGRET. 

Stretch  out  thy  hand,  O  God !  and  bid  him  rise, 
The  brightest  sun  that  dawns  on  these  old  eyes : 
Father,  he  told  me  once  thy  name  was  love ; 
Now  raise  him  up,  —  by  this  thy  mercy  prove. 

Who  for  the  sinful,  wretched  soldier  old, 
But  this  brave  boy  had  dared  to  be  so  bold  ? 
In  battle  once,  through  shot  and  shell  and  smoke, 
Through  hostile  foemen  for  my  sake  he  broke  ; 

Dragged  me  from  heaps  of  dying  and  the  dead, 
Laid  on  that  stainless  breast  this  guilty  head, 
And  bore  me  off,  watched  with  me  night  and  day ; 
Live  for  my  sake,  dear  Richard,  live,  I  pray." 

Two  hearts  on  earth  were  breathing  the  same  prayer, 
That  rough  old  soldier  and  that  lady  fair : 
Did  Christ  not  say,  "  If  two  on  earth  agree, 
They  surely  have  what  they  have  asked  of  me." 

The  sick  man  moved  ami  turned  upon  his  bed  ; 
He  looked  like  one  who  listened,  raised  his  head. 
44  The  battle  turns  :  the  day  is  ours  !  they  flee  ! 
Wave  high  the  flag  !  shout,  boys,  the  victory  !  " 

Then  he  sank  back  ;  the  old,  sad  look  returned ; 
Those  blue  and  lustrous  eyes  with  fever  burned  : 
44  They  win,"  he  cried  ;  "  but  victory  to  me 
Is  from  this  cruel  bondage  to  be  free." 


MARGRET.  25 

He  closed  his  eyes.     How  was  it,  then,  that  he 

A  lady  enter  at  that  door  should  see  ? 

"  What  sudden  light,"  he  cried,  "  has  filled  my  room  ? 

She  comes,  alike  my  blessing  and  my  doom." 

"  Richard,  be  calm,"  she  said,  and  took  his  hand  ; 
He  yielded  like  a  child  at  her  command : 
"  I  thought  these  eyes  would  never  see  you  more. 
Was  this  well,  Margret,  not  to  come  before  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  know  until  to-day,"  she  said, 

"  That  any  grief  had  bowed  King  Richard's  head  ; 

I  did  not  know  that  any  mortal  woe 

Had  caused  these  eyes  of  his  with  tears  to  flow." 

"They  did  not  tell?     You  guessed  the  cause  of  grief; 
'Tis  well  the  cause  of  woe  should  bring  relief: 
'Tis  often  thus  ;  and  even  now  I  feel 
A  sense  of  healing  o'er  my  spirit  steal. 

Your  voice  has  numbed  this  agony  of  pain ; 
I  feel  as  if  your  hand  were  on  my  brain, 
As  if  your  soul  were  passing  into  mine ; 
My  pulses  answer  yours,  they  beat  your  time. 

I  feel  this  fever  ebbing  fast  away  !  " 

He  cried,  "  O  Margret !  have  you  dared  to  pray 

That  I  should  live,  I  who  have  longed  to  die, 

I  who  thanked  God  to  feel  that  death  was  nigh  ?  " 


26  MARGRET. 

She  moaned,  God  help  you,  Richard,  and  forgive  : 
When  you  are  better,  you  will  wish  to  live  ; 
That  was  the  sick  man  spoke,  not  Richard  strong. 
Dear  friend,  have  you  forgot  a  little  song 

I  sang  to  please  that  English  boy  who  died, 

He  in  his  country's  ballads  had  such  pride? 

You  liked  it  well :  you  said  the  thoughts  were  true  ; 

You  said  'twas  more  than  music  in  your  view. 

Perhaps  t'would  soothe  you  now,  and  bring  you  sleep 
Music  gives  slumber  sometimes  soft  and  deep." 
"  Yes,  Margret,  sing  the  song  ;  I  like  it  well : 
Perhaps  'twill  do  me  good  ;  I  cannot  tell." 

King  Robert  lay  in  the  forest  dell, 
Sore  wounded  and  distressed  ; 

A  random  arrow  had  pierced  too  well 
King  Robert's  royal  breast. 

Another  had  borne  the  prize  away 
Which  he  had  hoped  to  wear ; 

And  the  kingly  heart  had  given  way 
With  grief  too  great  to  bear. 

His  faithful  Herbert  essayed  to  move 

The  arrow  from  his  heart ; 
But  with  all  his  strength  King  Robert  strove, 

And  would  not  with  it  part. 


MARGRET.  27 

Thou  cruel  Herbert,  forbear,  forbear  ; 

Wilt  thou  not  let  me  die  ? 
This  wretched  life,  pray  why  wouldst  thou  spare? 

What  joy  on  earth  have  I  ? 

I  am  defeated,  boy,  and  undone  ; 

My  heart  is  cleft  in  twain  ; 
For  my  eyes  and  arms  there  is  but  one, 

For  her  my  love  is  vain. 

Let  me  die,  and  then  I  shall  not  see 

A  sight  I  could  not  bear  : 
Their  blessedness  would  but  madden  me, 

And  drive  me  to  despair. 

Death  comes  at  her  hands,  therefore  'tis  dear : 

Stanch  not  the  blood,  I  pray  ; 
For  every  drop  she  will  give  a  tear,  — 

Let  Robert  have  his  way. 

She  will  bend  in  grief  above  my  grave ; 

My  death  will  pierce  her  heart : 
She's  cold  while  I  live  ;  therefore  I  crave 

That  life  and  I  may  part. 

For  pity  from  her  will  grow  to  be 

As  love  when  Robert's  dead  ; 
One  tear  from  her  eyes  outweighs  with  me 

This  crown  upon  my  head. 


28  MARGRET. 

King  Robert  ceased  ;  but  the  boy's  blue  eyes 
With  gathering  tears  were  dim  ; 

He  looked  at  his  master  in  surprise, 
And  thus  he  spoke  to  him :  — 

I  am  but  a  page,  and  thou  art  King, 

And  yet  I  must  be  heard  ; 
The  suit  is  another's  that  I  bring, 

I  speak  another's  word. 

That  other  is  bending  over  thee, 

But  thou  dost  heed  him  not : 
He  never  ceased  to  remember  thee, 

But  thou  hast  him  forgot. 

He  walked  with  thee  on  each  battle-field, 

He  scattered  all  thy  foes ; 
His  faithful  breast  was  thine  only  shield, 

He  warded  off  their  blows. 

He  gave  thee  wisdom  and  strength  and  skill, 

He  gave  thee  power  to  sway 
The  hearts  of  men  at  thy  royal  will, 

To  love  thee  and  obey. 

But  now  He  is  asking  thee  to  take 

A  sorrow  He  doth  give  ; 
Is  pleading  that  thou,  for  his  dear  sake, 

Be  willing  still  to  live. 


MARGRET.  29 

He  is  asking  thee  to  touch  the  cross, 

Which  He  was  made  to  bear  ; 
Is  asking  submission  to  thy  loss, 

And  not  this  black  despair. 

From  thy  life's  full  wreath  He  asketh  thee 

One  flower  to  resign  ; 
In  thy  garland  'twas  not  meant  to  be, 

Nor  in  thy  chaplet  twine. 

The  Master  planted  that  lovely  flower, 

Watched  over  it  with  care  ; 
He  nursed  it  alike  with  sun  and  shower, 

It  grew  surpassing  fair. 

He  wished  to  give  it  to  one  whose  life 

No  other  blessing  had  ; 
To  one  whose  mind  and  soul  were  at  strife, 

Whose  heart  was  sore  and  sad. 

The  Master  saw  it  was  thus  alone 

That  sad  dark  soul  would  draw 
Virtue  and  strength  :  such  power,  all  must  own, 

In  love's  constraining  law. 

But,  Robert,  he  made  thee  strong  to  live 

By  help  from  him  alone  ; 
Unnumbered  blessings  to  thee  did  give, 

And  raised  thee  to  a  throne. 


JO  MARGRET. 

Now  listen  :  his  children  everywhere 

Are  calling  thee  for  aid  ; 
They  perish  with  sorrow,  sin,  and  care, 

These  souls  that  He  has  made. 

Thou  hast  fought  for  him  in  Palestine, 

Fight  now  for  him  at  home, 
That  through  this  darkness  his  light  may  shine, 

Here  too  his  kingdom  come. 

He  points  to  the  weak  and  the  oppressed, 

The  sinful  and  the  blind  ; 
Man  leaves,  wherever  his  feet  have  pressed, 

A  trail  of  blood  behind. 

He  works  in  his  vineyard  all  the  day, 

He  asketh  help  of  thee ; 
To  that  loving,  pleading  voice,  I  pray, 

What  may  thine  answer  be? 

She  ceased :  deep  silence  reigned,  no  sound  was  heard  ; 
She  bent  her  head  to  catch  an  answering  word  ; 
Only  a  soft,  low  breathing  reached  her  ear, — 
*'  Thank  God  !  "  she  murmured,  "  now  I  have  no  fear." 

She  watched  him  long :  how  beautiful  he  seemed  ! 
Anon  he  smiled,  as  if  of  peace  he  dreamed  ; 
She  closed  her  eyes,  as  if  she  could  not  brook 
Too  long  on  him,  once  so  beloved,  to  look. 


MARGRET.  3! 

They  all  had  gone,  and  left  her  there  with  him  : 
The  clock  ticked  loud,  the  lamp  burned  low  and  dim  ; 
God  and  the  holy  stars  were  looking  down, 
Angels  were  weaving  their  immoi'tal  crown. 

A  fiercer  battle  never  had  been  waged 
Than  that  in  which  those  two  had  been  engaged : 
The  contest  over,  they  who  fought  were  there,  — 
One  in  the  land  of  dreams,  and  one  in  prayer. 

The  night  wore  on,  and  still  King  Richard  slept, 
And  still  a  sleepless  watch  that  lady  kept ; 
The  waning  stars  a'u  last  foretold  the  morn, 
The  kindling  east  proclaimed  that  day  was  born. 

/• 
Then  suddenly  the  sick  man  raised  his  head  : 

'•  You  wait  my  answer,  Herbert,"  then  he  said. 
"  I  had  forgot :  'tween  heaven  and  earth  I've  been  ; 
I've  heard  the  Master,  and  his  face  I've  seen. 

'Tis  as  you  said,  dear  Herbert :  'tis  his  will 
That  I  should  here  remain,  his  work  fulfil : 
You  said  He  healeth  all  who  will  be  healed  ; 
I  bow  my  head,  and  to  his  wisdom  yield. 

If  He  has  work  on  earth  for  me  to  do, 

I  will  arise,  and  to  that  work  be  true. 

Now,  Herbert,  take  the  arrow  from  my  breast : 

For  me,  for  all,  He  knoweth  what  is  best." 


32  MARGRET. 

P 

Margrct  to  heaven  raised  her  grateful  eyes : 

"  Thou  art  all-loving  as  Thou  art  all-wise  ; 

The  darkest  spirit  can  Thy  power  quell : 

God  bless  thee,  Richard  ;  now  farewell,  farewell." 


Three  months  had  passed  :  the  summer  sun  rode  high  ; 
No  cloud  to  break  the  azure  of  that  sky : 
Margret  had  wandered  down  upon  the  shore  ; 
Each  day  she  loved  the  ocean  more  and  more. 

Long  while  alone  she  sat ;  no  sound  was  heard 
But  the  soft  plash  of  waves  or  song  of  bird  : 
The  noon  had  passed  ;  the  sun  was  sinking  low, 
Bathing  the  sky  and  sea  in  amber  glow. 

* 

A  distant  step  was  heard  ;  she  turned  her  head  : 
"  Old  John,  the  sailor  !  "  then  aloud  she  said. 
"  Ah,  yes  !  I  think  he  comes  in  search  of  me  : 
He  loves  to  sit  and  talk  about  the  sea." 

"  Good  morning,  lady."     "  Afternoon,  I  think  : 
Look  in  the  west ;  the  sun  begins  to  sink." 
44  Ah,  yes,"  he  sighed  :  "  I  only  meant  to  pray, 
Whate'er  the  hour,  to  you  might  be  good  day." 

He  paused.    She  said,  "  Why,  John,  you're  silent  grown 
This  solemn,  troubled  look  is  not  your  own  : 
I  thought  you  would  have  much  to  say  to  me  ; 
I  have  not  seen  you  since  that  fight  at  sea. 


MARGRET.  33 

I  know  this  contest  lawful  in  your  sight ; 
I  cannot  clearly  see  that  war  is  right : 
I  cannot  justify  it  to  my  mind, 
Unless  another  code  than  Christ's  I  find. 

But  'twas  a  glorious  victory  we  gained  ; 
And,  though  so  many  hearts  are  sorely  pained, 
God  in  His  mercy  kept  our  darlings  well, — 
Not  one  of  all  we  loved  on  that  day  fell." 

"  Was  it  a  victory?  "  old  John  replied. 
"  Ah  yes,  perhaps  it  was  ;  "  and  then  he  sighed, 
"  In  so  much  joy,  we  do  not  all  take  heed 
How  sorely,  bitterly,  some  hearts  must  bleed." 

"  True,  John  ;  God  help  us  never  to  forget 
How  many  eyes  with  tears  to-day  are  wet : 
But  Philip's  safe,  and  coming  home  to  me  ; 
For  that  I  must  rejoice  and  thankful  be. 

You  will  be  glad  to  see  him  here  again  : 
Your  wound  is  cured,  John,  now  ;  you  feel  no  pain? 
You  look  at  me  with  such  a  grieved  surprise ; 
And  now  the  tears  are  dropping  from  your  eyes. 

Tell  me,  is  not  my  Philip  safe  and  well? 
If  so,  what  sorrow,  then,  have  you  to  tell  ? 
Have  you  a  grief,  John,  and  I  know  it  not? 
Our  league  of  friendship,  then,  you  have  forgot." 

3 


34  MARGRET. 

"  No,  lady,  no  ;  ah  yes,  'twas  as  you  say, 
A  crowning  victory,  a  glorious  day  : 
But  Philip,  he  is  coming,  he  is  here  ; 
I  think,  I  know,  he  even  now  is  near." 

"  Philip  is  here,  and  docs  not  come  to  me  ! 
Old  John,  what  do  you  mean?  that  cannot  be." 
"'  Be  calm,  be  patient,  lady  ;  do  not  fear : 
I  will  go  bring  him  ;  I  will  lead  him  here." 

•;  You  bring  him  !   lead  him  !     Is  he  wounded,  sick? 
Speak,  I  implore  you,  tell  me,  tell  me,  quick." 
"  Lady,  I  will ;  then  call  it,  if  you  may, 
A  crowning  victory,  a  glorious  day. 

But,  oh  !  forgive  me  if  it  seems  to  me 

So  dark  a  day,  —  a  darker  could  not  be  : 

One  shot,  one  shell,  that  day,  too,  too  unkind  ; 

It  crashed,  it  shivered,  —  Philip's  blind,  stone  blind." 


Two  hours  later,  on  that  moonlit  shore, 
Margret  is  sitting  where  she  sat  before  : 
But  now  two  sightless  eyes  are  raised  to  hers ; 
A  pleading  voice  her  inmost  being  stirs. 

I  have  no  words  to  tell  thee  how  I  love  : 

They're  weak  to  show 
With  what  a  steady,  true,  and  fervent  heat 

The  fire  doth  glow. 


MARGRET.  35 

I  lean  on  thee  ;  cling  to  thee  like  a  vine 

Around  a  tree  : 
I  have  no  eyes,  no  ears,  no  voice,  no  thought, 

For  aught  but  thee. 

There  could  not  be  a  grief  I  could  not  bear, 

If  at  thy  side  : 
If  thou  wilt  love  me,  I  shall  murmur  not, 

Whate'er  betide. 

Oh,  leave  me  not !  with  thee  I  am  not  blind  ; 

Be  thou  mine  eyes  : 
If  thou  art  near,  no  need  of  sun  or  moon 

Or  starry  skies. 

If  thy  dear  voice  interprets  all,  then  I 

Shall  think  I  see  : 
Better  than  sight  by  far  to  know  I  am 

Beloved  by  thee. 

To  hold  that  place  in  thy  dear  heart,  I  deem 

So  great  a  gift, 
I  shall  for  evermore  in  praise  to  Heaven 

My  soul  uplift. 

Didst  thou  not  say  that  I  am  dearer  now 

Than  e'er  before  ? 
Then  welcome  blindness,  every  grief  that  makes 

Thee  love  me  more. 


36  MARGHET. 

If  so,  upon  these  eyes,  whence  light  hath  flown, 

Oh  !  let  me  feel 
One  long,  dear  kiss,  that  of  thy  love  shall  he 

The  sign  and  seal. 

"  Philip,  if  thy  dear  eyes  could  read  my  face, 
Within  thy  heart  for  doubt  there'd  be  no  place  : 
I  press  my  lips  against  their  tender  blue  ; 
For  now  I'm  wholly  thine,  faithful  and  true. 

Now  thou  art  loved  so  fondly  and  so  well, 
Some  day  I  shall  not  hesitate  to  tell 
Of  the  dark  shadow  that  has  crossed  my  path, 
An  angel  of  God's  mercy,  not  His  wrath. 

For  we  can  speak  of  dangers  that  are  o'er, 
When  we  have  safely  reached  a  quiet  shore  : 
A  soldier  loves  to  paint  a  battle-field  ; 
He  loves  the  sword  he  fought  with,  and  his  shield. 

O  Philip !  love  is  sweet,  and  life  is  dear, 
If  God  remembered  be,  if  Christ  be  near : 
If  they  are  absent,  love  works  only  harm, 
And  life  has  lost  its  meaning  and  its  charm. 

The  brightest  day  without  Him  is  but  night ; 
The  darkest  life  through  Him  becometh  light : 
Philip,  of  that  great  love  I  dare  not  speak,  — 
The  theme  too  mighty,  and  my  words  too  weak. 


MARGRET.  37 

Xo  grief  must  be  called  grief  that  brings  God  near  ; 

Woe  is  not  woe  if  it  but  makes  Him  dear : 

If  sorrow,  pain,  drive  us  to  His  dear  feet, 

Then  welcome  sorrow,  —  pain  shall  be  most  sweet. 

Philip,  like  him  of  old  who  could  not  see, 
With  wonder  thou  wilt  ask,  What  may  this  be, 
This  throng  and  press  of  life  ?     Who  draweth  nigh  ? 
Jesus  of  Nazareth,  He  passeth  by. 

Then  if  of  Him  thy  soul  shall  ask  for  light, 
Thou'lt  hear  these  words,  My  son,  receive  thy  sight. 
Then,  Philip,  I  shall  read  in  thy  dear  face 
That  light  with  thee  has  only  changed  its  place  ; 

Leaving  thine  eyes  to  centre  in  thy  soul, 
Thence  flooding  to  illuminate  the  whole. 
O  Philip  !  when  He  giveth  light  and  peace, 
From  every  sorrow  we  have  found  release." 


38  PAUL   AND    BERNARD. 


PAUL   AND    BERNARD. 


THE  moon  lies  on  the  frozen  snow  ; 
Does  an  unwonted  splendor  throw 
On  all  around,  above,  below. 

Earth  glitters  in  a  silver  sheen  : 
A  fairer  winter's  night,  I  ween, 
Than  this  not  often  has  been  seen. 

A  crystal  mist  seems  to  enfold 

Each  dome  and  roof  and  steeple  old  ; 

The  air  is  keen  and  clear  and  cold. 

Pinched  poverty's  half-naked  child 

May  shiver  at  its  aspect  wild, 

And  sigh  for  summer,  warm  and  mild. 

But  light  and  heat  keep  cold  at  bay, 
And  make  December  glow  like  May, 
And  turn  the  midnight  into  day. 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD.  39 

Within  that  crowded,  brilliant  hall 

Can  winter  enter,  grief  appall  ? 

Joy  seems  to  move  and  rule  them  all. 

Did  I  say  all?     That  was  not  well. 
What  power  can  we  have  to  tell 
What  passes  in  the  heart's  deep  cell? 

I've  seen  men  smile  who  were  not  glad  ; 
I've  heard  them  laugh  when  very  sad : 
God  knows  what  bitter  grief  they  had. 

Some  think  it  well  to  cover  woe  : 
I  think  they  suffer  more  if  so  ; 
'Tis  hard  against  the  stream  to  row. 

Some  never  choose  to  part  with  grief: 
They  loved  the  tree  ;  the  withered  leaf 
They  press,  hoping  to  find  relief. 

Grief  is  received  in  many  ways  : 
Some  hearts  it  tunes  to  utter  praise, 
To  spend  in  love  their  earthly  days. 

Others  are  crushed  beneath  its  feet : 
They  have  not  strength  their  foe  to  meet, 
And  so  their  ruin  is  complete. 


40  PAUL   AND    BERNARD. 

How  will  he  meet  it  \vlio  stands  there, 
Amidst  that  throng  of  brave  and  fair? 
Will  he  have  strength  the  shock  to  bear? 

Will  grief  to  him  prove  foe  or  friend? 
The  gathering  storm,  how  will  it  end  ? 
Will  the  heart  break,  or  will  it  bend? 

His  face  plainly  reveals  the  pain 

Which  floods  the  heart  and  stuns  the  brain 

A  captive  he  who  shows  his  chain. 

A  strong,  calm  face  ;  somewhat  too  stern  : 
A  bitter  lesson  he  must  learn, 
A  scathing  fire  there  must  burn, 

Ere  strength  with  gentleness  will  blend, 

Ere  justice  will  in  mercy  end, 

And  soft  compassion's  dews  descend. 

Just  and  upright  and  pure  is  he 

As  any  child  of  man  can  be : 

His  life  might  men  and  angels  see. 

But  to  his  feet  would  sinners  dare 
Creep  with  their  load  of  heavy  care  ? 
Would  tender  pity  meet  them  there  ? 


PAUL   AND    BERNARD.  4! 

I  think  they'd  turn  away  in  fear, 
And  wonder  why  they  ventured  near : 
They  cannot  look  for  mercy  here. 

And  yet  so  true  and  pure  and  grand 
He  looks,  like  one  born  to  command, 
And  hold  men  with  that  steady  hand. 

'Tis  such  a  wondrous,  kingly  face  : 
Such  royal  virtues  there  you  trace, 
You  long  that  a  more  tender  grace 

Should  humanize,  ennoble  all ; 

Such  pure,  strong  outlines  seem  to  call 

For  a  soft  mist  o'er  them  to  fall. 

But  now,  as  on  his  face  you  look, 
With  pity  must  your  heart  be  shook, 
If  pity  soul  like  his  will  brook. 

His  arms  are  folded,  lips  compressed : 
He  seems  to  think  it  wisest,  best, 
To  put  his  courage  to  the  test, 

And  not  to  turn  his  face  away, 

Though  what  he  sees  should  smite  and  slay. 

I  think  I  hear  that  proud  heart  say, 


42  PAUL    AND    BERNARD. 

"  I  will  not  flinch  because  I  bleed  ; 
.          I'll  bear  the  burden,  if  decreed  ; 
And  then  upon  despair  I'll  feed. 

I  scorn  to  turn  to  meaner  things, 
Despise  the  solace  pleasure  brings  : 
I  know  how  soon  she  finds  her  wings. 

No ;  if  on  him  are  fixed  her  eyes, 
And  if  my  love  she  doth  despise, 
I  leave  her  to  her  choice  so  wise. 

A  poor,  weak  creature  he :  e'en  now 
The  flush  of  wine  is  on  his  brow. 
How  can  a  soul  like  Edith's  bow 

At  such  a  throne  as  that?     He  bends 
Too  close  ;  forbear  !  that  touch  transcends 
My  patience  :  now  their  speaking  ends. 

She  takes  his  arm,  and  moves  away  ; 
Help  me,  my  God  !  I  saw  her  lay 
Her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  say 

Two  words  that  fill  me  with  alarm. 
They  think  me  cold  and  proud  and  calm  : 
It  stabbed,  that  touch  upon  his  arm." 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD.  43 

If  Paul  had  heard  what  passed  between 
Those  two,  her  heart  had  fully  seen, 
His  fears  perhaps  dispelled  had  been. 

That  night,  as  Bernard  sat  so  near, 

He  whispered  into  Edith's  ear 

That  she  had  grown  to  him  most  dear. 

And  when  he  pressed  her  for  reply, 
To  grant  his  suit  or  to  deny, 
She  only  answered  with  a  sigh, 

"  O  Bernard  !  if  my  heart  I  know, 

Its  blood  towards  you  doth  surely  flow  ; 

I  think,  I  think,  Bernard,  'tis  so. 

And  then,  and  then,  you  know  too  well ! 
Your  kinsman,  Paul,  you've  heard  me  tell ! 
You  saw  to-night  what  darkness  fell 

Across  his  face  at  sight  of  you  ; 

He,  without  doubt,  is  strong  and  true. 

O  Bernard  !  if  I  only  knew 

That  you  these  sins  of  youth  would  leave, 
Which  make  your  friends  so  deeply  grieve, 
You  would  in  time  the  past  retrieve. 


44  PAUL   AND    BERNARD. 

Bernard,  each  day  some  warning  voice 
I  hear,  bidding  me  make  a  choice, 
Which  shall  through  life  my  heart  rejoice. 

And  to  your  pleading  stop  my  ear, 
Never  permit  you  to  draw  near  ; 
Bernard,  they  fill  my  soul  with  fear. 

They  are  unjust  to  you,  I  deem  ; 
For  you  are  better  than  you  seem  : 
Your  life  has  been  an  ugly  dream. 

Your  sad,  neglected  youth  I  know  ; 
The  early,  bitter  draught  of  woe  ; 
How  tainted  blood  in  you  doth  flow 

From  parents'  veins,  clogging  your  course, 
Keeping  you  down  to  earth  by  force, 
Filling  your  soul  with  dark  remorse. 

I  see  a  virtue  flash  to  light ; 
My  soul  rejoices  at  the  sight : 
'Tis  followed  by  as  dark  a  night. 

Bernard,  you  cannot  fail  to  see 

How  sore  perplexed  my  heart  must  be 

When  thus  you  press  your  suit  on  me. 


PAUL   AND    BERNARD.  45 

My  heart  and  reason  are  at  strife  ; 
Dare  I  trust  in  your  hands  my  life, 
And  hear  from  you  the  name  of  wife  ? 

Bernard,  to  you  I  frankly  own 
Unto  myself  my  heart's  unknown. 
Together  from  our  youth  we've  grown, 

You,  Paul  and  I :  both  love  me  well ; 

I  love  you  both  :  I  cannot  tell 

Where  doth  my  heart  most  fondly  dwell. 

Sometimes  Paul  seems  to  me  most  dear, 
And  then  I  shrink  away  in  fear, 
And  long  for  Bernard  to  be  near. 

My  childish,  youthful  sins  I  had : 
They  always  made  Paul  stern  and  sad ; 
You  never  thought  them  very  bad. 

We  could  not  all  be  saints,  you  said ; 

Forgivingly  upon  my  head 

You  laid  your  hand,  such  comfort  spread. 

I  was  not  strong  in  outward  frame  : 
Sorrows  I  bore  which  had  no  name ; 
Such  griefs  an  equal  pity  claim. 


46  PAUL   AND    BERNARD. 

Restless,  impatient,  oft  was  I ; 
Wept  bitterly,  but  knew*  not  why  : 
You  said,  'Twill  do  her  good  to  cry. 

Paul  thought  me  negligent  at  school : 
You  said  'twas  hard  to  live  by  rule  ; 
'Twas  but  the  wisdom  of  a  fool 

To  make  all  walk  by  the  same  road  ; 
Some  needed  check,  and  some  the  goad  : 
'Twas  well  He  understood  us,  —  God, — 

Who  made  us,  and  not  two  the  same  : 
And  yet  we  all  his  love  might  claim  ; 
He  calls  his  children  each  by  name. 

Poor  little  Edith,  you  would  sav, 
Weep  on ;  for  me,  I  only  pray 
That  there  may  never  come  a  day 

When  so  much  grief  is  in  your  heart 
That  from  your  eyes  no  tear  will  start, 
Diminishing  your  grief  in  part. 

One  day  my  lips  had  forged  a  lie  ; 
Tortured  with  grief,  remorse  was  I,  — 
Afraid  to  live,  afraid  to  die. 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD.  47 

You  were  away,  but  Paul  was  there : 
To  speak  to  him  I  did  not  dare  ; 
His  scorn  I  felt  I  could  not  bear. 

My  soul  grew  sick  with  pain  and  fear ; 
I  cried,  If  Bernard  were  but  here  !  — 
I  think  my  longing  brought  you  near. 

I  heard  your  light  step  in  the  hall : 
I  fluttered  down,  and  told  you  all ; 
I  thought  I  saw  a  shadow  fall 

Across  your  sunlit,  truthful  face  ; 
Meanness  with  you  could  have  no  place, 
And  yet  no  anger  could  I  trace. 

You  said,  Come,  Edith,  come  with  me : 

This  lie  no  more  a  lie  shall  be ; 

We'll  own  the  truth,  and  then  we're  free. 

You  took  my  hand  :  the  pain  was  gone 
Which  had  my  soul  with  anguish  torn  : 
Grief  with  another  can  be  borne. 

'Twas  winter  then,  and  even-tide  : 

I  walked  in  silence  at  your  side  ; 

By  your  kind  hand  my  tears  were  dried. 


48  PAUL   AND    BERNARD. 

We  reached  the  village-school  at  last : 
Oh,  how  my  heart  beat  loud  and  fast, 
When  o'er  the  threshold  we  had  passed ! 

The  mistress  came  ;  I  heard  you  say, 
One  of  your  lambs  has  strayed  away, — 
Has  found  no  peace  by  night  or  day. 

Be  brave,  my  Edith,  speak,  'tis  best: 

I  hid  my  face  upon  your  breast, 

And  there  and  then  the  whole  confessed. 

You  heard  me  right  the  wrong,  and  tell 
The  simple  truth,  how  all  befell : 
You  said,  Now,  Edith,  all  is  well. 

That  night  to  sleep  I  tried  in  vain : 
My  heart  was  rilled  with  nameless  pain, 
And  hot  and  restless  was  my  brain. 

A  light  was  burning  in  the  hall ; 
It  shone  upon  the  gardey  wall : 
Large  drops  of  rain  began  to  fall. 

I  rose  ;  could  bear  my  pain  no  more  : 
I  crept  below,  paused  at  the  door, 
For  there  you  stood  upon  the  floor. 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD.  49 

You  started  back  at  sight  of  me  : 
Cried,  Little  Edith,  can  this  be? 
What  pale,  sad  face  is  this  I  see  ? 

I  could  not  sleep,  I  said,  I  grew 
So  cold  :  I  saw  the  light ;  I  knew, 
I  thought,  I  hoped  it  might  be  you. 

Close  to  your  side  you  drew  my  chair, 
Silently  sat  and  watched  me  there. 
What  troubles  little  Edith  fair, 

At  last  you  said  :  is  not  all  well  ? 
If  not,  why  then  to  Bernard  tell. 
With  that,  down  at  your  feet  I  fell. 

Bernard,  I  cried,  tell  me  if  He, 
The  great,  just  God,  will  punish  me  ; 
That  He  will  very  angry  be 

With  such  a  little  girl  as  I, 
Because  I  told  that  wicked  lie? 
Not  long  I  paused  for  this  reply. 

Angry  with  little  Edith,  no  ! 

I  cannot  think  it  could  be  so  : 

His  heart  is  pained  to  see  your  woe. 

4 


5O  PAUL    AND    BERNARD. 

These  great,  round  tears  have  washed  awav 
That  naughty  word  that  you  did  sav  : 
Be  calm  now,  little  one,  I  pray. 

'Tis  time  these  eyes  should  cease  to  weep, 
And  close  in  very  peaceful  sleep  : 
Be  sure  the  angels  watch  will  keep. 

I'll  talk  to  you  a  little  while 

And  sing,  that  will  your  thoughts  beguile  : 

For  I  must  see  my  Edith  smile 

Before  she  says,  Good-night  to  me  ; 
And  that  Bernard's  reward  shall  be. 
I  shall  not  go  until  I  sec 

This  little  face  look  bright  once  more, 

Smiling  and  sunny  as  before. 

There  came  a  light  knock  at  the  door. 

You  opened  it :  I  heard  you  say, 
Without  me,  you  must  go  away  ; 
For  I  to-night  at  home  shall  stay. 

Bernard,  I  cried,  is  this  for  me? 

For  Edith's  sake,  I  cannot  sec 

You  leave  your  friends  :  this  must  not  be. 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD. 

You  said,  'Tis  better  so  to  do  : 

The}7  are  a  thoughtless,  reckless  crew  ; 

I'd  rather  stay  and  talk  with  you. 

You  said,  Go,  James,  I  cannot  come  : 

A  little  girl  wants  me  at  home  ; 

A  laughing  jest  'twill  prove  to  some. 

Eyes  do  not  always  rightly  see  : 
Unto  that  little  girl  and  me 
A  blessing  it  may  prove  to  be. 

Long  while  you  talked  and  read  and  sang, 
Uiitil  the  bell,  with  heavy  clang, 
At  last  the  hour  of  midnight  rang. 

My  head  was  resting  on  your  knee  : 
You  started,  and  that  wakened  me  ; 
You  cried,  Quite  fast  asleep,  I  see. 

Come,  little  one,  now  say,  Good-night ; 
Sleep  safely  till  the  morning  light ; 
Tell  me  the  fears  are  banished  quite. 

All  gone,  I  said,  kind  Bernard  dear : 
You've  chased  away  each  ugly  fear  ; 
Oh  !  why  are  you  not  always  here  ? 


52  PAUL    AND    BERNARD. 

When  you  arc  gone,  what  shall  I  do? 
I  am  afraid  of  all  but  you. 
Tell  me,  I  cried,  it  is  not  true 

All  that  he  said,  your  kinsman  Paul? 
I  heard  you  talking  in  the  hall, 
The  day  you  had  that  cruel  fall. 

He  said  that  you  were  worthless,  weak  : 
Disgraceful  pleasures  you  did  seek. 
Paul  has  no  right  such  words  to  speak, 

I  cried,  you  are  not  understood  : 
Your  Edith  knows  that  you  are  good.  - 
I  saw  your  cheek  crimson  with  blood. 

You  cried,  No,  darling  :  hung  your  head  ; 

Paul  is  quite  right,  you  sadly  said. 

How  on  my  heart  your  kind  words  tread. 

And  make  me  wish  my  sins  a  dream, 

And  that  I  could  be  what  I  seem 

To  you,  dear,  loving  child,  who  deem, 

Because  I'm  good  and  kind  to  you, 
That  to  myself  and  God  I'm  true. 
Oh  !  if  my  darling,  in  your  view, 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD.  53 

Bernard  is  good  and  pure  and  just, 

If  little  Edith  doth  me  trust, 

Why,  then,  I  think  that  Bernard  must 

Try  to  be  good,  for  her  dear  sake, 
Lest  he  this  little  heart  should  break. 
Dear  child,  you  said,  I'll  try  to  make 

Myself  anew,  and  leave  behind 
These  hateful  sins,  and  you  shall  find 
Bernard  is  good  as  well  as  kind. 

Soon  after  that,  Bernard,  you  know. 
This  heart  of  mine  was  filled  with  woe  ; 
For  you  were  forced  from  me  to  go. 

For  many  years  you  were  away, 
And  always  seemed  content  to  stay  : 
How  my  heart  ached  I  did  not  say. 

While  I  from  child  to  woman  grew, 
Your  cousin  Paul,  instead  of  you, 
Proved  a  most  constant  friend  and  true. 

But  oh  to  every  fault  how  stern  ! 
I  loved  and  trembled  each  by  turn. 
How  much  of  Bernard  he  might  learn, 


54  PAUL    AND    BERNARD. 

I  often  thought :   though  Paul  looked  sad 
When  he  a  letter  from  you  had, 
I  wondered  if  you  still  were  bad, 

And  weak  and  wilful  as  of  old. 
Bernard,  can  Edith  be  so  bold 
To  ask  you,  Did  that  promise  hold 

Which  to  that  little  girl  you  made, 
That  night  her  heart  was  so  afraid? 
Bernard,  that  child  for  you  has  prayed. 

Oh  !  tell  me  what  these  years  have  been? 

What  have  the  angels  gladly  seen  ? 

And  is  there  nought  you'd  like  to  screen? 

Those  letters  that  you  wrote  to  Paid 
Did  not  convince  my  heart  at  all 
That  any  blame  on  you  should  fall. 

I  knew  that  you  to  him  would  speak- 
As  if  you  still  were  worthless,  weak, 
And  rather  blame  than  praise  would  seek. 

And  what  was  wrong  you'd  not  conceal, 
The  good  care  little  to  reveal, 
And  so  content  my  heart  did  feel." 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD.  55 

"  Edith,  that  promise  which  I  gave 
Made  for  my  sins  an  early  grave  ; 
At  least,  from  ruin  it  did  save. 

Others  judged  justly,  but  too  hard, 
And  none  had  faith  in  poor  Bernard, 
But  you,  —  your  heart  did  me  regard 

As  something  great  and  good  and  wise  : 
You  looked  in  unconvinced  surprise 
To  find  I  was  not  in  their  eyes 

All  that  I  seemed  to  a  sweet  child,  — 

Brave,  generous,  and  undefiled. 

One  day,  to  hear  you  speak,  they  smiled  : 

You  said,  He's  better  than  you  all, 
Him,  St.  Bernard,  I  choose  to  call ; 
But,  Paul,  I  change  your  name  to  Saul. 

You  are  ungentle,  cruel,  hard : 
You  persecute  my  dear  Bernard, 
And  without  mercy  him  regard. 

O  Edith  !   how  your  faith  in  me 
Made  me  ashamed  my  sins  to  see  ! 
Resolve  from  them  I  would  be  free. 


56  PAUL    AXD    BERNARD. 

Edith,  a  look  in  your  child's  face, 
When  I  held  you  in  my  embrace 
At  parting,  still  has  kept  its  place 

In  my  man's  heart,  and  made  me  strong 
To  battle  with  the  sin  and  wrong ; 
And  though  to  me  do  not  belong 

The  spotless  robe,  undintecl  shield, 
And  though  I've  fallen  on  the  field, 
I  rose  again  my  sword  to  wield. 

Sometimes  the  foe  I  sank  beneath  : 
Perhaps  my  sword  was  in  its  sheath  ; 
As  yet  I  wear  no  victor's  wreath. 

But  at  my  post  I  did  not  sleep : 
I  had  to  fight  my  place  to  keep  ; 
And,  when  I  fell,  I  rose  to  weep. 

I  never  broke  a  woman's  heart, 
Nor  acted  any  devil's  part 
Upon  this  old  world's  busy  mart. 

Such,  dearest  Edith,  are  the  years 
Which  you  have  filled  with  holy  fears, 
Anointed  with  vour  loving  tears. 


PAUL   AND    BERNARD.  57 

But,  Edith,  since  I  have  been  here, 

One  thought  has  filled  my  soul  with  fear, — 

I  think  I  am  to  her  less  dear, 

Who  used  to  hold  me  first  and  best, 
The  loved  and  honored,  trusted  guest, 
To  whom  all  secrets  were  confessed. 

That  grief,  that  fear,  has  touched  my  soul, 
And  other  sorrows  o'er  me  roll : 
A  single  woe  one  might  control. 

But,  when  their  forces  they  combine, 
They  shake  a  firmer  soul  than  mine  ; 
And  yet  no  fault  it  is  of  thine. 

I  will  not  urge  the  coward's  plea, 
And  say  I  fall  because  of  thee : 
My  sins  belong  alone  to  me. 

They  rule,  because  I'm  poor  and  weak ; 

Upon  no  human  head  I  seek 

The  blame  to  lay,  nor  will  I  speak 

One  impious  word  'gainst  Heaven,  and  say, 
We're  as  He  made  us,  —  worthless  clay, 
Unequal  to  the  battle-day. 


58  PAUL   AND    BERNARD. 

No :  man  can  tread  temptation  down  : 
And,  if  he  fail  to  win  his  crown. 
The  fault  not  God's,  but  all  his  own. 

At  times,  with  power  o'er  sin  I  reigned  : 
It  seems  as  if  the  strength  I  gained 
Is  gone  ;  by  that  my  heart  is  pained. 

i 

Edith,  it  is  as  thou  hast  said  : 
I  did  believe  the  demon  dead  ; 
But  now  he  lifts  again  his  head. 

I  thought  the  battle  ended,  done  ; 
I  thought  the  victory  was  won  ; 
I  thought  the  triumph  had  begun. 

But  once,  twice,  thrice,  I  know  of  late, 
I've  yielded  to  the  sin  I  hate  ; 
I  groan  to  see  my  strength  abate. 

This  dark,  red  flush  upon  my  brow, 
This  restless  light  that  flickers  now 
Within  my  eye,  —  whence  comes  it,  how? 

Because  I'm  weak  enough  to  flood 

My  veins  with  that  which  poisons  blood  : 

One  drop  for  me  is  fatal  food. 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD.  59 

I  wonder  not  that  thou  dost  pause 

To  grant  my  suit ;  thou  hast  great  cause, 

For  in  Bernard  are  many  flaws. 

I  hear  these  voices  say,  Beware  ! 
Oh,  do  not  listen  to  his  prayer ! 
I  do  not  wonder  at  their  care. 

I  do  not  dare  to  urge  my  plea  : 

I  leave  thee,  Edith,  loved  and  free ; 

I  only  ask  thy  prayers  for  me. 

Paul  is  upright  and  pure  and  just : 
I  yield  to  him,  for  yield  I  must, 
Content  at  least  that  I  can  trust 

The  child,  the  woman  that  I  love, 
To  one  whom  every  shock  doth  prove 
A  rock,  nor  joy  nor  woe  can  move. 

I'll  check  the  tear  that  fills  this  eye, 
When  one  too  good  for  such  as  I 
Upon  a  worthier  breast  shall  lie." 

He  rose,  and  left  her  there  alone  ; 
And  Edith  answered  with  a  moan, 
"  Noble  Bernard  !  and  still  my  own." 


60  PAUL   AND    BERNARD. 

The  crowd  moved  by  her  from  the  hall : 
She  seemed  Unconscious  of  them  all, 
But  started  at  the  voice  of  Paul. 

"  Come,  breathe  with  me  a  purer  air  ; 
This  dance  of  fools  I  cannot  bear  ; 
See  how  they  chatter,  grin,  and  stare. 

They  look  like  children  at  a  plav  : 
I  have  no  patience  with  such  clay ; 
It  maddens  me  to  sec  them  gay. 

Do  they  not  know  man's  blood  is  flame  ? 
Do  they  think  passion  but  a  name? 
Do  they  think  life  or  death  the  same  ? 

Abysses  are  beneath  their  feet, 

Above,  the  heavenly  voices  sweet ; 

And  man  must  choose  which  doom  to  meet. 

Those  two,  like  dolls  I  think  they  look : 
Their  puny  loves  I  cannot  brook  ; 
My  soul  is  with  a  tempest  shook." 

"  Be  patient,"  Edith  urged,  "  dear  Paul : 
Our  Father's  children,  one  and  all, 
Without  whom  doth  no  sparrow  fall. 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD.  6 1 

In  his  own  way  He'll  touch  each  soul, 
And  make  it  yield  to  his  control ; 
To  every  shore  his  waters  roll. 

That  face  is  dull  and  lifeless  now  ; 
But  when  He  writes  upon  that  brow, 
With  a  new  beauty  it  will  glow. 

I  think  He's  patient  when  He  hears 
That  empty  laugh  :  He  sees  the  tears 
Which  have  to  flow  in  coming  years." 

She  led  Paul  to  an  inner  room  : 

Long  while  she  talked  to  cheer  his  gloom  ; 

She  thought  a  gentler  mood  had  come. 

"  Walk  with  me,  Paul,  before  we  go, 
Within  these  wralls  where  flowers  grow, 
Though  all  around  is  frost  and  snow." 

At  her  request,  they  two  did  pass 

Within  that  house  of  heated  glass : 

'•  These  flowers  summer's  buds  surpass. 

They  seem  to  flourish  in  an  air 
Too  heavy,  faint  for  us  to  bear. 
Why,  who  is  that,  Paul,  lying  there?" 


62  PAUL    AXD    BERNARD. 

"  Hush,  Edith  ;  well  we  arc  alone  : 
Bernard,  his  reason  overthrown, 
Asleep  upon  that  bench  of  stone." 

Paul,  with  a  scorn  he  could  not  hide, 

Kicked  Bernard  with  his  foot  aside  : 

"  Poor  weakling,  fool !  "  aloud  he  cried. 

Oh,  fatal  tlirust !  oh.  fatal  word  ! 
'Twcre  well  for  Paul  had  she  not  heard  : 
Each  drop  of  Edith's  blood  was  stirred. 

It  seemed  by  them  Paul's  doom  was  scaled 
And  now  for  years  he  might  have  kneeled 
Ere  she  unto  his  suit  would  vield. 

i 
High  in  her  check  rose  the  hot  blood  ; 

She  like  some  hunted  creature  stood, 
Defending  from  assault  her  brood. 

"  Hard,  cruel  heart,  such  words  forbear, 
And  in  my  presence  do  not  dare 
Breathe  aught  against  him  sleeping  there. 

Have  you  no  mercy,  heart  of  steel? 
Can  you  not  for  his  weakness  feel? 
You  crush  men  with  your  iron  heel. 


PAUL    AXD    BERNARD.  63 

You  know  how  bravely  he  has  fought ; 
You  know  the  victory  he  wrought ; 
Some  sudden  grief  this  fall  has  brought. 

As  yours,  my  soul  revolts  to  see 
This  sight ;  but  God  forbid  that  he 
Should  ever  meet  contempt  from  me. 

I  think  of  her  who  once  was  led 
Unto  Christ's  feet.     Upon  her  head 
He  launched  no  curse  :  He  only  'said, 

Go,  sin  no  more.     If  such  as  He 
Would  not  condemn,  oh  !  why  should  we 
With  scorn  and  curses  be  so  free  ? 

Struggles  like  his  are  not  in  vain  : 

I  know  he  will  arise  again  ; 

Break  every  link  of  this  strong  chain. 

Pity  and  love  in  me  combine  ; 

Strong  faith  and  hope  around  him  twine  ; 

You  stabbed  us  both  :  Bernard  is  mine." 


That  night  did  Edith  pass  in  prayer, 
Her  pain  too  great  alone  to  bear : 
God  loves  his  children's  griefs  to  share. 


64  PAUL    AND    BERNARD. 

And  with  the  light  of  coming  clay 

Her  hope  and  faith  resumed  their  sway  : 

Such  courage  all  must  have  who  pray. 

She  cried,  "  This  day  begins  with  thce  ; 

And,  ere  another  morn  shall  be, 

These  words,  Bernard,  shall  go  from  me." 

She  wrote,  "  Bernard,  do  not  despair: 
This  new-made  breach  you  can  repair 
By  courage,  watchfulness,  and  prayer. 

You  trusted  that  the  foe  had  fled  : 
He  only  slept,  you  thought  him  dead  ; 
He  came  with  stealthy,  silent  tread. 

He  saw  your  sword  was  in  its  sheath  ; 
That  you  would  sink  his  blow  beneath  : 
So  plucked  a  laurel  from  your  wreath. 

We  must  not  fold  our  arms  and  say, 
The  fight  is  done  :  I've  won  the  day, 
And  the  last  foe  I've  chased  away. 

*• 

For  we  must  struggle  to  maintain 

The  ground  we've  reached  through  blood 

and  pain  ; 
No  sluggard  e'er  can  hope  to  reign. 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD. 

Bernard,  my  heart  wavers  no  more  : 
I  now  am  sure,  if  ne'er  before  ; 
Its  waters  break  upon  your  shore. 

Yes,  Bernard,  I  am  yours  alone  ; 
My  heart  is  yours,  no  more  my  own  : 
This  from  the  first  you  must  have  known. 

My  heart  I  give  you  from  this  day, 
My  eyes  from  you  shall  never  stray. 
But  mark,  Bernard,  my  words,  I  pray. 

Here  firmly  do  I  take  my  stand  : 
My  heart  I  give,  but  not  my  hand ; 
That  gift  Bernard  shall  not  command, 

Till  he  can  say,  Edith,  I'm  free  ; 
I've  killed  the  sin  that  conquered  me  : 
Then  I  your  loving  wife  will  be. 

But  now  I  think  it  would  be  sin 
That  holy  bond  to  come  within, 
Until  that  victory  you  win. 

Bernard,  I  tremble  when  I  think 
Into  what  gulf  a  soul  might  sink 
That  stands  upon  such  awful  brink. 
5 


66  PAUL   AND    BERNARD. 

Deeds  have  been  clone  as  dark  as  hell 
By  those  who  through  this  weakness  fell  : 
Go,  ask  the  felon  in  his  cell, 

Whence  came  upon  his  hand  that  stain  ; 
Why  branded  with  the  mark  of  Cain. 
Burnt  in  upon  the  heart  and  brain. 

He  will  rcplv,  The  deed  was  done 
When  I  and  passion  stood  alone  : 
Reason  had  fled  her  outraged  throne. 

Bernard,  I  trust  at  your  dear  side 
To  walk,  to  look  on  you  with  pride  ; 
But  that  you  must  yourself  decide. 

I  walk  alone,  if  not  with  you  ; 
If  sundered,  Edith  still  is  true  ; 
Though  desolate,  I  shall  not  rue 

My  choice  ;  the  child  loved  Bernard  well, 
The  woman  more  than  she  can  tell ; 
God  bless,  I  cannot  say  farewell." 


The  night  that  Edith  passed  in  praver 
Saw  Bernard  wrestle  with  despair  ; 
His  grief  too  great,  it  seemed,  to  bear. 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD.  67 

Say  not  that  Edith's  prayers  were  vain  : 
The  morning  brought  a  clearer  brain, 
But  waked  his  soul  to  fiercer  pain. 

He  paced  those  solemn  fields  of  snow  ; 

Like  their  imprisoned  ice  his  woe  : 

It  would  not  melt,  no  tears  would  flow. 

All  day  he  fought ;  the  night  drew  near  ; 
A  loud,  long  shriek  burst  on  his  ear  ; 
He  started  with  a  nameless  fear. 

He  looked  toward  the  eastern  height, 
Flashed  on  his  eyes  an  awful  sight : 
The  sky  was  filled  with  lurid  light. 

From  eveiy  window,  roof,  there  came 
Long  spiteful  tongues  of  yellow  flame  : 
Rose  to  his  lips  one  only  name. 

The  air  was  rent  with  wailing  cries  : 
His  only  thought,  "  He  dies,  Paul  dies, 
The  man  so  precious  in  her  eyes." 

He  cried,  "  For  her  his  life  I'll  save, 
And  every  danger  for  him  brave, 
Even  though  I  should  find  a  grave." 


68  PAUL    AND    BERNARD. 

"  Madness  to  venture  there,"  they  cried  : 
"  If  it  be  so,"  his  heart  replied, 
"  'Twill  be  for  Edith  I  have  died. " 

Half  dead,  quite  senseless,  Paul  he  found, 
A  trusted  coil  around  him  wound, 
Lowered  him  gently  to  the  ground. 

Alone,  blinded  by  smoke  and  flame, 
lie  hardly  felt  the  crash  that  came, 
Or  life  or  death  looked  then  the  same. 

Down,  down  he  fell ;  his  long,  light  hair 

Fluttered  an  instant  in  the  air  ; 

Down,  down,  "  My  God  !  "  his  only  prayer. 

What  followed,  Bernard  never  knew  ; 
The  sight  that  first  did  meet  his  view, 
A  woman's  form,  his  Edith  true. 

There  dropped  upon  his  face  a  tear  : 
He  started  quickly  up  in  fear,  — 
"•  Is  not  Paul  safe?  is  he  not  here? 

They  bore  him  off",  I  thought,  from  harm." 
She  answered,  "  Needless  this  alarm  : 
Paul  is  quite  safe  ;  Bernard,  be  calm." 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD.  69 

Her  woman's  instinct  quickly  guessed 
The  truth  ;  his  secret  stood  confessed  : 
She  strained  him  closely  to  her  breast. 

> 

"  Noble  Bernard,  brave  heart !"  she  cried, 
"  Then,  but  for  you,  Paul  must  have  died  ; 
And  now  the  truth  from  him  you  hide." 

Bernard  replied,  "  'Tis  better  so  ; 
'Twould  grieve  his  very  soul  to  know 
He  was  the  cause  of  this  great  woe." 

Bernard  looked  at  his  mangled  limb  : 
"  Paul  must  not  know  this  is  for  him  ; 
It  would  his  joyful  future  dim." 

He  cried,  "  For  you  I  saved  his  life,  — 
For  you,  who  are  to  be  his  wife." 
She  sprang  as  if  he  plunged  a  knife 

Into  her  side,  and  burst  away. 

"  Bernard,  what  is  it  that  you  say? 

Can  you  not  read  my  heart,  I  pray  ? 

Oh  !  read  it  in  my  eyes,  and  see 

That  I  your  wife  alone  will  be  : 

God  saved  your  life,  Bernard,  for  me." 


7O  PAUL   AND    BERNARD. 

'Tis  winter,  near  the  even-tide  : 
One  hour  more  the  sun  will  ride. 
And  then  from  us  his  face  will  hide. 

Now  Edith  tries  to  work  in  vain  ; 
Walks  to  the  window  onee  again  ; 
Her  face  is  pressed  against  the  pane. 

She  cries,  "  'Tis  time  he  should  be  here  : 
It  is  because  he  is  so  dear 
Delay  fills  me  with  anxious  fear. 

Oh,  keep  him  safe,  dear  God,  for  me  ! 
He  comes  at  last ;  'tis  he,  tis  he  ! 
He  stops  to  sit  beneath  a  tree." 

Who  is  it  pausing  there  to  rest? 
One  hand  upon  his  side  is  pressed, 
And  heaving  painfully  his  breast. 

One  arm  hangs  lifeless  at  his  side  ; 
Its  usefulness  for  ever  died 
Three  years  ago  this  even-tide. 

The  frame  is  crippled,  bowed,  and  bent ; 
It  seems  as  if  the  sorrow  sent 
Upon  the  outward  form  had  lent 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD.  'Jl 

Unto  the  face  a  perfect  calm, 
As  if  he  sang  a  holy  psalm, 
And  waved  in  gratitude  a  palm. 

And  though  it  wears  a  saddened  mien, 
A  nobler  face  was  never  seen  ; 
You  recognize  Bernard,  I  ween. 

Not  long  he  pauses  'neath  the  tree : 
"  I  go  ;  my  Edith  waits  for  me." 
He  lifts  himself  most  painfully. 

Edith  is  quickly  there  to  lend 

Her  arm  ;  and,  as  they  homeward  wend, 

The  winter's  day  draws  near  its  end. 

"  Sit  here,  Bernard,  the  sun  sinks  low : 
How  beautiful  this  yellow  glow  ! 
It  seems  to  warm  this  frozen  snow. 

How  late  you  are,  Bernard,  to-night ! 
Tired  you  seem,  your  cheek  is  white  ; 
You  work  too  hard,  it  is  not  right. 

I've  watched  the  children  in  the  snow ; 
You  closed  the  school  two  hours  ago  ; 
You  wait  to  study  there,  I  know." 


J2  PAUL    AND    BERNARD. 

"  Not  so,"  he  says,  "  dear  heart,  to-night 
I  longed  to  reach  you  ere  the  light 
Had  faded  from  yon  western  height. 

I  met,  but,  by  and  by,  I'll  tell : 
Edith,  you  do  remember  well 
What,  just  three  years  ago,  befell 

This  very  night,  to  me  and  Paul. 
And  now,  thank  God  ;  for  I  can  call 
Edith  my  wife,  beloved,  my  all. 

For  Paul  my  heart  bleeds  on  like  rain  : 
'Twas  he  I  met  to-night  again  ; 
He  has  a  deep,  unconquered  pain. 

The  love  and  jov,  not  half  confessed, 
With  which  I  hold  you  to  my  breast ! 
And  yet  Paul's  grief  gives  me  no  rest. 

I  think  he  turns  from  you  his  eyes, 
For  he  is  pure  and  just  and  wise  : 
It  seems  with  hunger  that  he  dies. 

I  trusted  God  himself  would  fill 
That  starving  heart,  its  sorrow  still, 
And  make  it  love  His  holv  will. 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD.  73 

I  in  my  arms  such  blessings  hold, 

It  seems  this  earth  is  paved  with  gold  ; 

I've  not  the  heart  to  be  so  bold 

To  say,  You  ought  to  be  content 
With  what  your  God  to  you  has  sent, 
Knowing  no  more  for  you  was  meant. 

0 

I  wear  the  prize  which  he  has  lost : 
My  course  is  smooth,  but  his  is  crost ; 
I  live  in  warmth,  but  he  in  frost. 

This  crippled  body  that  I  wear 

Would  prove  a  feather's  weight  to  bear, 

Compared  with  that  which  is  his  share. 

Three  years  ago  this  night,  dear  love, 

Your  inmost  soul  I  tried  to  prove  : 

Oh,  how  your  words  my  heart  did  move  ! 

Surrounded  by  the  gay  and  young* 

Gently  the  words  dropped  from  your  tongue, 

And  yet  my  soul  with  grief  they  wrung. 

Close  to  your  lips  my  ear  was  bent, 
Back  to  your  childhood's  years  you  went, 
And  then  I  felt  a  deep  content. 


74  PAUL   AND    BERNARD. 

It  seemed  to  me  in  those  clays  clear, 
That  poor  Bernard  was  very  dear  : 
But  was  he  still  ?     I  had  great  fear. 

The  crowd  swept  up  and  down  the  hall 
I  was  regardless  of  them  all ; 
Your  eyes  were  often  fixed  on  Paul. 

You  said  two  in  your  heart  did  dwell ; 
That  Paul  and  I  were  loved  so  well, 
The  dearer  who,  you  could  not  tell. 

You  since  have  told  me  I  was  blind  ; 
That,  had  I  looked  the  veil  behind, 
The  truth  I  had  not  failed  to  find. 

That  I  was  first,  it  had  been  clear : 

It  was  not  I  had  grown  less  dear, 

But  that  your  heart  was  filled  with  fear. 

That  every  voice  bade  you,  beware, 
And  close  your  ear  against  my  prayer : 
To  wed  Bernard  you  did  not  dare. 

I  felt  unworthy  ;  could  not  pray 
For  mercy  ;  rose  to  go  away  ; 
My  heart  to  you  farewell  did  say. 


PAUL   AND    BERNARD.  75 

I  thought  that  I  had  lost  your  love, 

Enough  unto  despair  to  move  ; 

But  one  more  woe  my  strength  must  prove. 

The  riches  I  had  thought  my  own 

Had  found  their  wings,  and  from  me  flown, 

Into  another's  hands  were  thrown.      . 

Stunned  by  the  double  grief,  forgot 
That  God  is  strong  when  we  are  not, 
And  makes  man  equal  to  his  lot. 

So  followed  that  disgraceful  fall, 
Witnessed  by  you  alone  and  Paul : 
The  cause  you  guessed  in  part,  not  all. 

From  Paul  himself  I've  often  heard 
How  your  indignant  blood  was  stirred 
By  his  rough  kick  and  rougher  word. 

I  wonder  not  Paul  could  not  brook 
On  such  a  sight  unmoved  to  look  : 
With  gratitude  my  heart  is  shook, 

That  still  your  faith  in  me  you  kept. 
That  for  my  fall  you  only  wept, 
And  that  your  love  had  never  slep  t. 


76  PAUL    AND    BERNARD. 

But,  Edith,  to  mv  God  and  King 
How  deep  the  gratitude  I  bring : 
My  life  not  long  enough  to  sing 

His  praise  who  kept  me  through  that  night, 
Then  helped  me  do  a  deed  of  light : 
The  angels  joyed  to  see  the  sight. 

Such  mercy  all  my  love  doth  claim  : 
I  might  have  wrought  a  deed  of  shame, 
Brought  ruin  on  an  honored  name. 

The  darkest  crimes  that  stain  this  earth 
Have  often  in  that  sin  had  birth. 
What  is  a  gentle  nature  worth, 

When  man  has  kindled  in  his  soul 
A  flame  he  knows  not  to  control, 
Which  unto  hell's  dark  mouth  may  roll  ? 

I  do  bethink  me  now  of  one 
Whose  course  on  earth  was  well  begun, 
•        But  through  this  sin  he  was  undone. 

•When  he  had  yielded  to  its  sway, 
Temptation  came  within  his  way  ; 
He  lifted  his  mad  hand  to  slav. 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD.  77 

They  hunted  him  o'er  land  and  sea  : 
Poor  wretch  !  more  cruelly  was  he 
Hunted  by  his  own  agony  ! 

Blood  !  blood  !  no  leafy  tree  that  stirred 
But  hissed  into  his  soul  that  word  : 
Blood  !  blood  !  it  grew  a  sound  he  heard. 

Caught,  chained  at  last,  they  heard  him  say, 
Glad  that  the  law  must  have  its  way  : 
His  life  was  forfeited  to-day. 

Edith,  such  fate  might  have  been  mine  ; 

But  round  the  loving  arm  divine 

Your  faithful,  fervent  prayers  did  twine. 

Edith  !  that  night,  I've  heard  you  say 
You  knelt  in  prayer  till  break  of  day  : 
To  God's  own  ear  your  voice  found  way. 

Edith,  those  prayers  were  heard  above  : 
What  followed  did  their  answer  prove. 
Prayer  moves  the  God  of  strength  and  love. 

If  Paul  that  lonely  height  had  kept, 
The  night  that  brutish  sleep  I  slept, 
His  early  death  we  must  have  wept. 


78  PAUL    AND    BERNARD. 

In  vain  for  mercy  he  had  cried, 

I  could  not  then  have  reached  his  side, 

An  awful  death  he  must  have  died. 

A  bridge  of  mercy  came  between 
Two  nights,  or  Paul  had  never  seen 
Another  sun  gild  earth,  I  ween. 

Quietly  broke  that  morning  gray, 
To  light  my  Edith  on  her  way 
Where  helpless,  crippled  Bernard  lay. 

'Twas  on  that  morning,  Edith,  there, 
You  promised  you  would  grant  my  prayer, 
And  Paul's  proud  spirit  always  spare 

The  knowledge  that  his  life  was  bought 
At  such  a  fearful  price :  the  thought 
To  him  with  madness  would  be  fraught. 

A  soul  less  proud  than  his  might  bear 
Such  debt  of  gratitude  to  wear : 
Upon  his  head  I  should  not  dare 

Such  weight  to  lay :  a  soul  must  be 
Noble,  royal  in  high  degree, 
To  bear  such  burden  patiently." 


PAUL   AND    BERNARD.  79 

"Your  thought,  I  understand,  Bernard, 
My  promise  solemnly  regard, 
To  keep  it  sometimes  find  it  hard. 

Perhaps  such  knowledge  would  impart  ^ 
Strange  gentleness  unto  his  heart : 
He  scorns  men  now,  and  sits  apart. 

Oh,  if  he  only  knew  how  sweet 
'Twould  be  to  sit  at  Christ's  dear  feet, 
Even  though  sinners  he  should  meet ! 

We'll  trust  that  God  will  draw  him  there, 
And  bow  for  him  our  knee  in  prayer, 
And  leave  him  in  his  Father's  care." 


Five  years  have  passed.     The  setting  sun 
Tells  that  the  summer's  day  is  done  : 
With  this  a  new  week  was  begun. 

The  old  church  crowns  the  hill  in  pride  ; 
The  ivy-covered  doors  ope  wide  ; 
The  people  press  from  either  side. 

The  solemn  organ  peals  farewell, 
And  prays  that  if  those  hearts  must  tell 
Of  grief,  of  comfort,  too,  as  well. 


So  PAUL   AND    BERNARD. 

Some  have  been  seeking  help  to  bear 
Their  heavy  load  of  earthly  care. 
And  begged  for  mercy  in  their  prayer. 

Others  have  owned  their  anxious  fear 
That  earth  had  grown  to  them  so  dear, 
God  to  their  heart  was  not  so  near. 

All  wend  their  various  homeward  ways, 
They  of  whom  grief  had  rilled  the  days 
Were  those  whose  lips  were  clothed  with  praise. 

The  last  upon  that  sloping  green 

Comes  Paul,  whom  we  before  have  seen  ; 

But  now  he  wears  a  different  mien. 

0 

The  cold,' proud  face  has  passed  away  : 
He  looks  as  if  his  heart  might  say, 
Mercy  for  me  and  all,  I  pray. 

He  pauses  at  the  hill's  descent ; 
His  eyes  upon  the  ground  are  bent ; 
He  murmurs,  "  No  :  perhaps  he  went 

The  other  road  ;  I  heard  him  say 
That  he  should  go  at  close  of  day : 
For  the  same  life  we  both  do  pray. 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD.  8 1 

Ah,  here  he  conies  !  the  priestly  gown 
Is  doffed  ;  the  king  puts  off  his  crown  : 
Come,  Geoffrey  mine,  and  sit  you  down. 

Tell  me,  you  saw  him  yesternight, 
Danger  is  past  with  Bernard  quite  : 
I  thought  I  read  it  by  the  light 

Which  shone  all  day  upon  your  face  ; 
You  fold  him  in  a  close  embrace, 
He  holds  deservedly  such  place." 

"  The  tide  is  turned,  Paul,  as  you  say  ; 
The  fever  ebbed  at  break  of  day  : 
He  seemed  content  to  go  or  stay." 

"  Not  so  with  us,"  Paul  makes  reply,    • 
"  We  need  him,  none  so  much  as  I : 
How  I  have  prayed  he  might  not  die  ! 

Gentle  Bernard,  and  true  and  brave  ! 
How  nobly  he  my  life  did  save, — 
Made  for  himself  a  living  grave  ! 

How  willingly  for  me  had  died  ! 

How  generously  then  did  hide 

The  truth,  that  he  might  save  my  pride  ! 

6 


82  PAUL   AND    BERNARD. 

And  when  at  last  the  light  did  break 
Upon  mv  eyes,  it  seemed  to  make 
The  deepest  sorrow  for  my  sake. 

Unjust  to  him  I  used  to  be, 

And  only  faults  in  him  could  see  : 

He  bore  injustice  patiently. 

His  one  great  sin  was  all  I  saw  : 
I  judged  him  by  that  broken  law  : 
Blind  to  his  virtue  through  one  flaw. 

His  prayer,  Be  merciful  to  me  ! 
I  thanked  my  God  I  was  not  he  ; 
Than  mine,  no  prouder  heart  could  be. 

I  scorned  Bernard  :  I  even  thought 

His  sins  their  righteous  judgment  brought, 

And  in  his  own  net  he  was  caught.  . 

I  scorned  him,  yet  I  sought  him  too  : 
I  thought  him  weak,  I  found  him  true  ; 
A  subtle  bond  between  us  grew. 

Though  I  had  lost  what  Bernard  won  ; 
Though  he  successful,  I  undone  ; 
Though  my  joy  ended,  his  begun,  — 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD.  83 

'Twas  only  at  his  feet  I  found 

A  balm  that  did  not  chafe  my  wound  : 

His  soothing  voice  the  only  sound 

Which  could  interpret  heaven  to  me. 
Though  I  was  slain,  he  made  me  see 
That  God  a  God  of  love  could  be. 

And  so  I  daily  sought  his  side, 
And  at  his  feet  forgot  my  pride, 
And  even  tears  cared  not  to  hide. 

He  seemed  the  weaker  of  the  two, 
And  yet  from  him  new  strength  I  drew : 
What  was  his  power,  never  knew. 

But  something  reigned  within  his  soul 
Which  over  me  held  strange  control, 
And  like  a  healing  stream  did  roll. 

I  saw  that  he  had  conquered  well 
The  sin  by  which  in  youth  he  fell : 
How  sore  the  struggle  we  could  tell 

By  every  line  upon  his  face. 

That  hard-fought  battle  we  could  trace  : 

A  king  had  won  and  kept  his  place. 


84  PAUL    AND    BERNARD. 

lie  never  thought  his  lot  was  hard. 
This  patient,  gentle,  brave  Bernard, 
But  me  with  pity  did  regard. 

O'er  grief  his  sympathy  was  spread  : 
This  hunger  of  the  heart,  he  said, 
Is  grievous  when  it  is  not  fed. 

No  word  of  blame  did  ever  fall. 

He  listened  patiently  to  all, 

Then  prayed,  God  comfort  thec,  mv  Paul. 

And  do  not  think  me  hard,  dear  friend, 
Because  I  say  this  grief  should  end 
In  time  :  then  will  the  Christ  descend, 

And  with  Himself  thy  heart  will  fill, 
And  every  wave  of  sorrow  still. 
And  drown  in  Him  all  earthlv  ill. 

And  though  thine  arms  should  empty  be 
Of  human  love,  thy  soul  will  see 
Sufficient  is  thy  God  for  thee. 

Then  he  would  say,  Paul,  thou  dost  know 
I  judge  thee  not ;  my  tears  do  flow  : 
I  think  most  natural  thv  woe. 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD.  85 

And  thus  the  man  I  did  despise, 
Above  all  others  I  did  prize, 
Precious  as  light  unto  my  eyes. 

The  blessing  came  as  he  had  said  ; 
My  hungry  heart  at  last  was  fed, 
My  poverty  to  Christ  was  led. 

And  in  my  love  for  Him  have  died 
My  scorn,  my  hardness,  and  my  pride  : 
I  look  upon  His  pierced  side, 

And  see  the  very  sins  in  me 

Which  nailed  Him  to  that  cruel  tree  : 

I  was  a  cold,  stern  Pharisee. 

Last  night  I  prayed  as  ne'er  before 
Till  break  of  day  in  anguish  sore  ; 
It  seemed  I  bled  at  every  pore, 

Beseeching  God  would  hear  my  prayer, 
And  Bernard's  life  to  me  would  spare  ; 
It  seems  his  death  I  could  not  bear. 

I  think  it  was  not  till  to-day 

That  I  could  bow  my  head  and  say, 

Thy  will  be  done,  not  mine,  I  pray. 


86  PAUL    AND    BERNARD. 

Since  then  I've  felt  a  haunting  fear, 
And  cannot  rest  in  calmness  here  : 
I'll  walk  with  you,  his  home  is  near." 


We  leave  these  two,  and  now  we  look 

Upon  a  sight  we  hardly  brook, 

With  grief  our  inmost  souls  are  shook. 

A  voice  which  we  have  heard  before 
Moans,  '*  Raise  me,  Edith,  yet  once  more 
The  fading  light  tells  day  is  o'er. 

I  must  die,  dearest,  with  the  sun  ; 
My  course,  like  his,  is  nearly  run  ; 
My  work  imperfect,  and  yet  done. 

Dearest,  my  life  on  earth  is  sweet, 

I  will  not  call  it  incomplete  : 

He  summons  when  He  thinks  it  meet. 

And  do  not  raise  above  my  head 
A  broken  shaft  when  I  am  dead, 
But  higher  let  thy  thoughts  be  led. 

lie  finishes  in  heaven  above 

The  work  which  He  began  in  love  : 

His  will  we  should  not  wish  to  move. 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD.  87 

Edith,  I  bless  thce  ;  in  thee  see 
The  gift  my  Father  gave  to  me  : 
Dearest,  how  much  I  owe  to  thee ! 

My  life,  transfigured  by  thy  love, 

My  weakness  all  thy  strength  did  prove, 

My  faults  thy  tenderness  did  move. 

Thy  soul  with  anguish  now  is  torn  ; 
I  cannot  ask  thee  not  to  mourn  ; 
But  let  thy  grief  be  upward  borne. 

Think  we  shall  meet,  dear  heart,  again  : 
Our  souls  have  not  been  joined  in  vain  ; 
Not  broken,  only  dropped  the  chain. 

And  on  that  fixed,  eternal  shore, 
'Twill  closer  bind  than  e'er  before  : 
Dearest,  I  must,  one  word,  one  more. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  strange  request : 
Forgive  me,  but  I  cannot  rest 
Until  this  wish  to  you  expressed. 

'Tis  of  Paul,  darling,  I  would  speak  : 
Something  it  is  for  him  I  seek  ; 
I  must  not  linger,  I  grow  weak. 


88  PAUL    AND    BERNARD. 

lie  has  been  very  kind  to  me  ; 

And,  when  Bernard  is  gone  from  thee, 

A  good,  true  friend,  I  know,  will  be. 

Remember  Paul  and  all  his  pain  ; 
Remember  how  he  loved  in  vain  ; 
Lift  me  up,  darling,  once  again, 

And  let  thy  woman's  heart  regard 

His  grief,  his  life  ;  they  have  been  hard  : 

Weep  not  too  long  for  thy  Bernard. 

But.  by  and  by,  I  pray  thee  take 
Paul  to  thy  heart  for  Bernard's  sake, 
And  heal  the  wound  thyself  didst  make. 

I  know  his  spirit  now  doth  move 

In  harmony,  God's  grace  doth  prove  : 

I  ask  for  him  a  human  love. 

To  God's  high  will  his  own  doth  bow  ; 
God's  peace  is  written  on  his  brow  ; 
He's  ripe  for  human  blessing  now. 

His  tears  will  flow  with  thine  for  me  : 
No  truer  mourner  wilt  thou  see 
Than  Paul  for  thy  Bernard  will  be. 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD.  89 

We  three  have  grown  together,  dear ; 
Paul  to  my  heart  is  very  near  ; 
I  go  before,  and  leave  you  here. 

Darling,  thou  knowest  that  we  three 
Walked  side  by  side  a  stormy  sea, 
Edith  in  doubt  'tween  him  and  me. 

At  last,  thy  hand  was  laid  in  mine  : 
I  felt  thv  love  around  me  twine, 
Anointing  my  poor  life  with  wine. 

We  left  him  there  those  waves  to  breast ; 
We  sailed  away  happy  and  blest ; 
We  left  an  arrow  in  his  breast. 

He  did  not  walk  that  sea  alone, 

A  mighty  arm  was  round  him  thrown, 

To  praise  was  turned  that  bitter  moan. 

lie  bore  him  bravely  in  that  strife  : 
I  wish  to  round,  complete  his  life  : 
By  and  by,  Edith,  be  his  wife. 

Five  years  ago,  I  do  confess, 

This  strange  request  I  could  not  press, 

But  do  not  think  I  love  thee  less. 


0/)  PAUL    AND    BERNARD. 

Believe  me,  never  to  my  heart 
Wert  them  so  dear  as  now  them  art, 
When  I  am  called  from  thce  to  part. 

But,  as  we  near  the  life  above, 

Our  hearts  are  filled  with  purer  love, 

Our  thoughts  in  higher  planes  do  move. 

Affection  lives,  but  passion  dies  ; 
These  earthly  veils  fall  from  our  eyes. 
Reveal  the  color  of  the  skies. 

A  threefold  cord  is  broke  to-dav  : 
I  am  the  first  to  pass  away  ; 
Two  must  a  little  longer  stay. 

O  God  !  forgive,  my  soul  receive, 
And  bless,  oh  bless,  the  two  I  leave. 
And  make  their  stricken  hearts  believe 

That  to  my  Father's  arms  I  go  : 
They  stay  to  serve  Thee  here  below  ; 
Both  worlds  are  Thine,  O  God  !  we  know 

Darling,  farewell !     Death  comes  apace  : 
Near,  nearer  still,  one  last  embrace  ; 
Let  my  last  sight  be  thy  dear  face. 


PAUL    AND    BERNARD.  9! 

The  mist  falls  now  ;  I  cannot  see  : 

O  God  !  my  Edith's  comfort  be  ; 

Be  Thou  with  her,  I  come  to  Thee." 

In  heaven  above,  the  angels  said, 

"  A  crown  of  glory  for  this  head  :  " 

On  earth  they  moaned,  "  Bernard  is  dead." 


93  KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDK. 


KASPAR  AND   GERTRUDE. 


THE  soft  white  snow  is  falling  thick  and  fast, 

And  through  the  windings  of  the  darkened  street 

Sweeps  on  the  wintry,  howling,  angry  blast, 
And  the  dull  tramp  of  weary  human  feet. 

The  bustle  and  the  fret  and  toil  of  life 
Are  over  now,  and  ended  for  the  dav, 

Which  for  too  many  has  been  fruitless  strife  ; 

And  now  they  sadly  wend  their  homeward  way. 

They  know  for  them  to-morrow's  sun  will  rise 
Only  to  bid  them  wake  to  toil  again  ; 

And  to  their  doubtful  hearts  and  tearful  eyes 
Their  labor  seems  at  times  to  be  in  vain. 

To  many  sons  of  earth,  life  grows  to  be 

Nought  but  a  constant  fight  for  daily  bread  : 

In  this  wide  world  'tis  hard  for  them  to  see 
A  place  where  they  can  lay  their  aching  head. 


KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE.  93 

But  there  is  light  and  hope  in  Kaspar's  face, 
And,  as  he  moves,  his  step  is  strong  and  free  ; 

That  tall  and  goodly  form  a  fitting  place 
For  valiant  spirit  such  as  his  to  be. 

That  face,  indeed,  no  story  has  to  tell 

Of  one  whose  life  on  earth  is  smooth  and  gay  ; 

She  sees, -who  loves  and  watches  him  so  well, 
A  shadow  in  the  distance,  cold  and  gray, 

Come  creeping  on  with  step  as  sure  as  slow  ; 

It  fills  her  faithless,  timid  soul  with  fear  ; 
She  feels  it  will  to  strength  and  substance  grow, 

Will  reach  at  last  and  crush  her  brother  dear. 

Now,  Bertha  does  not  measure  well,  we  think, 
The  strength  and  courage  of  her  Kaspar's  soul : 

That  is  a  noble  ship  that  will  not  sink, 
However  high  the  angry  waves  may  roll. 

But  now  a  quiet  light  within  his  eye 

Tells  of  a  joy,  however  brief,  to  come. 
Quickly  he  moves,  the  narrow  street  is  nigh 

Our  Kaspar's  humble,  honorable  home. 

And  while  he  mounts  the  long  and  winding  stair, 

We  will,  before  him  and  unbidden,  go 
To  look  on  her  who  now  awaits  him  there  : 

His  sister  Bertha  we  would  also  know. 


94  KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE. 

No  trace  of  Kaspar  in  that  face  you  see  ; 

The  frame  is  somewhat  twisted,  small,  and  slight 
Though  blue  and  full  the  eye  like  his  may  be, 

That  eye  has  lost  its  tender,  human  light. 

Bertha  is  pale,  her  features  sharp  and  thin, 
Each  line  upon  her  face  is  cut  in  pain  : 

In  her  perhaps  some  dark,  ancestral  sin 
Revives  once  more,  and  lives  in  her  again. 

A  frail  and  tortured  body  seems  to  cage 
A  proud,  unreconciled,  and  bitter  soul : 

A  cruel  battle  these  must  always  wage, 
Until  they  yield  to  God  and  His  control. 

But  now  as  Kaspar's  light,  quick  step  she  hears, 
Relaxed  the  lines  upon  her  furrowed  brow  ; 

Though  heavily  have  pressed  to-day  her  fears, 
She  has  forgot,  she  does  not  feel  them  now. 

She  moves  his  chair  to  its  accustomed  place, 
And  strives  to  make  the  fire  brightly  burn, 

And  lights  a  smile  upon  her  troubled  face 
To  speak  her  love,  and  welcome  his  return. 

"  Kaspar,"  she  says,  u  now  one  might  almost  deem, 
To  see  you  move,  to  look  at  you  to-night. 

•/  J  O 

This  fearful  storm  without  were  but  a  dream, 
So  full  your  face  of  courage  and  of  light. 


KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE.  95 

You  rise  above  these  lesser,  outward  ills  ; 

They  lose  their  power  with  you,  they  move  you  not : 
A  brave  and  grateful  heart  your  bosom  fills, 

Though  hard  and  narrow  is  your  earthly  lot." 

"  Bertha,  forbear,  I  pray  ;  a  song  of  praise, 
As  I  moved  home,  was  on  my  lips-to  night : 

I  cried,  O  God  !  how  merciful  Thy  ways 

To  me  !  my  path,  though  humble,  full  of  light. 

This  room,  though  small,  is  wide  enough  for  me  ; 

It  has  no  power  to  cramp  and  curb  the  mind  : 
And,  when  the  heart  and  soul  of  man  are  free, 

In  poverty  no  evil  should  he  find. 

I  have  a  sheltering  roof  above  my  head  : 

Bertha,  remember  Him  who  had  it  not.  . 

I  never  asked  in  vain  for  daily  bread  ; 

I  dare  not  —  cannot  murmur  at  my  lot. 

There  is  a  poverty  so  great,  I  know, 

Souls  wither  in  its  grasp,  and  faint  and  die  : 

They  reap  a  cruel  justice  here  below  ; 

But  mercy,  let  us  hope,  from  God  on  high. 

Such  poverty  I  pity  from  my  heart, 

And  long  for  power  to  mitigate  and  heal ; 

Grieved  that  my  hands  can  do  but  feeble  part, 
When  for  their  woes  my  heart  doth  deeply  feel." 


96  KASPAR    AND    GEUTKUDE. 

u  O  Kaspar  !  "  Bertha  cries,  "  if  power  and  will 
Were  but  combined,  it  would  indeed  be  well  ; 

And,  if  the  rich  their  duty  would  fulfil, 
There  would  not  be  such  miseries  to  tell. 

But  what  care  they,  in  ermine,  silk,  and  lace, 
That  hungry  wretches  perish  with  the  cold? 

I've  seen  them  turn  away  their  haughty  face, 
Then  for  a  bauble  fling  away  their  gold." 

"  Bertha,  be  just ;   it  is  not  so  with  all  : 
You  but  describe  a  part :    pass  over  those 

Whose  noble  hearts  respond  to  everv  call. 
Whose  life  it  is  to  mitigate  these  woes. 

Bertha,  be  just,  —  just  to  the  rich  and  great; 

This  bitterness  against  them  is  not  well ; 
They  strive  these  growing  evils  to  abate. 

How  faithfully  their  God  alone  can  tell. 

Not  with  the  humble  and  the  poor  alone 

Expect  to  find  nobility  on  earth  ; 
Be  sure  God  knoweth  where  to  place  His  own  : 

Oft  in  a  palace  they  have  had  their  birth. 

And,  Bertha,  do  not  think  the  great  are  free 
From  care  and  sorrow ;   heavy  hearts  are  there 

Many  would  take  my  poverty  from  me, 

And  give  the  burden  which  they  have  to  bear." 


KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE.  <  97 

Bertha  replies,  "  Perhaps  'tis  as  you  say  ; 

If  you  are  but  content,  I  bow  my  head  : 
I  could  not  but  speak  thus,  because  to-day 

My  thoughts  in  that  way  painfully  were  led." 

A  dull,  dark  cloud  comes  down  on  Bertha's  face, 
And  every  tinge  of  color  leaves  her  cheek  : 

J  o 

Kaspar's  observant  eye  can  quickly  trace 
Some  trouble,  and  he  presses  her  to  speak. 

"  She  came  to-day  ;  on  foot  she  could  not  come  ; 

She  must  be  borne  in  state  to  Kaspar's  door : 
She  thinks  it  honors  Kaspar's  humble  home 

To  set  her  dainty  foot  upon  the  floor." 

"  Silence  !  "  he  cries  ;  the  voice  so  deep  and  stern, 

So  awful  in  its  depth  of  pain  and  love, 
That  Bertha  trembles  :  she  has  yet  to  learn 

The  greater  power  of  him  she  hopes  to  move. 

"  Silence,  be  dumb  !     Bertha,  I  close  my  ear 

Against  such  railing,  when  the  theme,  her  name  ; 

One  word  of  bitterness  I  will  not  hear : 
Right  to  defend,  if  not  to  love,  I  claim. 

I  take  no  cringing  posture  at  her  feet, 

But  honor  and  am  just  where  honor's  due  ; 

My  heart  leaps  tip  in  gratitude  to  greet 
The  friendship  of  a  woman  noble,  true. 

7 


98  KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE. 

I  take  no  cringing  posture,  as  I  said, 

And  vet  I  recognize  a  social  line 
Keeping  our  lives  apart :   I  bow  mv  head  : 

I  have  no  thought,  no  hope  to  make  her  mine 

That  line  dividing  us  is  weak,  though  strong  ; 

It  woidd  not  bear  inspection  ;   that.  I  know, 
Keeps  many  oft  where  they  do  not  belong.  — 

Holds  others  back  when  they  have  right  to  go. 

But  now,  enough  of  this  ;   I  prav  vou  tell 

What  did  bring  Gertrude  to  our  home  to-dav. 

Her  brother  has  returned  :   with  him  'tis  well. 
Why  came  she,  Bertha?     Tell  me  now.  I  prav." 

"  Kaspar,  your  eyes  would  not  sec  what  I  saw  ; 

If  I  should  say  what  I  think  brought  her  here, 
On  my  offending  head  I  should  but  draw 

Your  anger  and  your  disbelief,  I  fear. 

She  lingered  long;  she  often  spoke  of  you, 

The  kindness  and  forbearance  you  had  shown  : 

How  to  her  brother  you  had  been  so  true, 

Had  sought  his  welfare  rather  than  your  own. 

She  said  how  grateful  she  should  ever  be  ; 

I  wondered  not  at  that ;   indeed,  'twas  well : 
But  still  she  did  not  go.  and  I  could  see 

That  there  was  something  more  she  wished  to  tell. 


KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE.  99 

Perhaps  your  brother  has  forgot,  she  said, 
The  choir  of  St.  Mark's  this  night  do  meet. 

We  look  upon  your  brother  as  our  head, 
No  voice  like  his  so  powerful,  so  sweet. 

Twice  he  has  not  been  there  :  will  you  remind 
Your  brother  that  we  meet  to-night  again? 

And  give  this  to  him  ;   tell  him  that  we  find 
To  work  without  him  it  is  quite  in  vain. 

I  promised  to  deliver,  therefore  take 

The  note  she  left."     He  reads,  and  turns  away. 

"  Will  you  not,  Kaspar,  for  your  Bertha's  sake, 
Tell  me  what  Gertrude  has  to  you  to  say?" 

"  Bertha,  I  will,  because  there  could  not  be 

Aught  in  her  words  that  should  not  meet  your  eyes  : 

If  in  her  true  light  Gertrude  you  would  see, 
Her  friendship,  as  I  do,  would  highly  prize. 

She  chides  me  gently,  laughingly  ;  she  says 
I  am  engrossed  with  figures,  books,  and  dates  ; 

I've  fallen  into  sad,  prosaic  ways, 

And  seem  contented  with  the  things  she  hates. 

She  writes,  At  that  most  stupid  desk  all  day 

You've  sat :  oh,  come  to-night,  and  sing,  my  friend. 

If  life  is  work,  all  work,  and  never  play, 

The  rhyme  says,  Jack's  a  dull  boy  in  the  end. 


IOO  KASPAR    AND    GERTKUDE. 

And  then  a  thought  of  sadness  seems  to  come  : 
She  writes,  Sing  Agnus  Dei ;  let  me  hear 

Your  voice  breathe  whispers  of  another  home  ; 
My  soul  is  dark  at  times  with  grief  and  fear. 

Amidst  a  careless  throng  I  act  a  part : 

They  murmur,  Gertrude's  happy,  Gertrude's  gav  ; 
They  do  not  see  the  heavy,  haunted  heart. 

Sing  Miserere,  Kaspar,  now,  I  prav." 

On  Bertha's  face  the  dark  and  sullen  cloud. 

As  Kaspar  reads,  grows  darker  than  before  : 
"  That  letter  is  not  well,"  she  says  aloud  ; 

"Each  day  my  fears  are  strengthened  more  and  more. 

O  Kaspar  !  do  not  give  the  quiet  name 

Of  friendship  to  the  love  that  fills  your  heart : 

You  should  from  her  an  equal  measure  claim  : 
I  fear  she  does  not  act  an  honest  part. 

You  say  she  loves  you  not ;  I  am  not  sure  ; 

Sometimes  I  think  you  do  not  read  her  soul. 
Perhaps  of  that  sick  heart  you  hold  the  cure  ; 

Perhaps  'tis  you  alone  can  make  it  whole. 

It  it  be  thus,  then  I  will  gladly  own 

The  woman  noble,  and  my  homage  bring 

To  one  who  places  Kaspar  on  her  throne, 

And  sees  him  first  of  men,  and  crowns  him  king. 


KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE.  IOI 

The  inward  eye  is  clear  which  can  discern 
A  monarch  when  he  moves  without  his  train. 

That  it  be  so,  indeed,  would  I  could  learn  ! 
But  much,  I  fear,  she  tampers  with  your  pain. 

Her  woman's  instinct  quickly  reads  your  love, 
Your  homage  to  her  jaded  heart  is  sweet ; 

She  will  not  let  you  from  her  side  remove. 
She  loves  to  see  you  lying  at  her  feet." 

"  Be  silent,  Bertha,"  Kaspar  cries  once  more  : 
"  You  are  unjust  to  her,  through  love  to  me  ; 

I  do  repeat  what  I  have  said  before, 

No  nobler  woman  walks  this  earth  than  she. 

I  see  her  faults,  to  them  I  am  not  blind  : 
You  know  I  do  not  claim  perfection  there, 

But  a  large  heart  and  royal  virtues  find, 
A  quick,  responsive  soul,  a  spirit  rare. 

Against  her  nobleness  your  malice  dies, 

Too  little  and  too  mean  the  charge  you  bring ; 

She'd  rather  lose  the  light  from  out  her  eyes 
Than  break  the  fibre  of  an  insect's  wing. 

She  does  not  know  I  suffer  ;  she  is  right : 

I  do  not,  for  my  life  is  happier  far, 
That  I  can  drink  a  little  of  her  light, 

That  in  her  orbit  I  can  be  a  star. 


IO2  KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE. 

Our  souls  have  touched  on  earth,  I  am  content ; 

She  honors  me  and  trusts  me,  that  is  clear  ; 
I  do  not  think  God  in  His  wisdom  meant 

Our  love  should  always  have  fruition  here. 

'Tis  much  to  know  her,  much  to  be  her  friend, 
Whom  she  will  seek  in  every  strait  of  life. 

Bertha,  I  trust  our  friendship  will  not  end, 
Even  though  other  lips  should  call  her  wife. 

Yes,  I  am  happy  now ;  and,  if  the  day 

Must  come  when  I  shall  swoon  in  bitter  pain, 

I  hope  that  through  my  tears  my  heart  will  say, 
This  sorrow  has  not  come  to  me  in  vain. 

For  in  my  secret  soul  I  do  believe 

Most  often  by  these  wounds  our  Father  brings 
Hearts  to  His  feet,  that  only  thus  would  leave 

This  world  to  seek  the  shadow  of  His  wings. 

But  now  I  go  ;  good-night :  she  must  not  call 
And  I  not  follow,  though  the  path  for  me 

May  lead  to  grief;   if  sure  no  sin  befall, 
I'll  do  her  bidding  over  land  and  sea. 

If  I  can  lend  to  her  a  helping  hand, 

If  I  can  sing  those  haunting  griefs  to  sleep, 

I  at  her  side  for  evermore  will  stand, 

E'en  though  my  eyes  most  bitter  tears  must  weep. 


KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE.  103 

If  I  can  be  the  rock  on  which  may  break 

The  waters  of  that  most  unquiet  soul, 
And  thus  my  agony  her  peace  can  make, 

I  murmur  not  if  o'er  my  head  they  roll. 

If  I  can  minister  to  that  dark  mind, 

Give  light  and  strength  to  that  perplexed  heart, 

If  through  my  bondage  she  deliverance  find, 
I  from  my  prison-house  will  not  depart. 

A  strange,  strange  world  !  sometimes  these  faltering  feet 
Must  tread  some  human  life  to  reach  their  God  : 

When  they  shall  meet  in  heaven,  these  words  how  sweet, 
Thou  wert  the  earthly  step  on  which  I  trod. 

And  when  God  needs  a  child  of  His  to  be 
A  bridge  like  that  for  weaker  souls  to  tread, 

He  fills  him  with  Himself:  he  cannot  see 

The  work  he  does  ;  by  God  his  strength  is  fed." 


Father,  be  with  thy  child  ; 
Do  Thou  be  strong,  for  I  am  very  weak  ; 
Put  in  my  mouth  the  words  that  I  shall  speak  ; 

I  am  by  sin  defiled. 

Help  me  thy  lamb  to  lead, 

Thy  weak  and  trembling  lamb,  within  Thy  fold 
Thine  arms  alone  Thy  child  can  safely  hold, 

Thyself  her  soul  doth  need. 


104  KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE. 

Her  feet  are  bleeding  now  ; 

She  walks  Thy  beauteous  earth,  O  (rod  !    in  pain  ; 
For  her  Thy  blessed  sun  shines  but  in  vain  ; 

Clouds  rest  upon  her  brow. 

Help  me  to  lift  on  high 
Thv  lamp  of  love  to  light  her  on  the  wav  : 
The  night  yields  not  so  surely  to  the  day 

As  grief  when  Thou  art  nigh. 

Be  Thou  her  sun  and  shield  : 
No  earthly  light,  however  bright  it  be. 
Can  satisfy  ;  each  soul  must  come  to  Thee.  — 

By  Thee  its  wounds  be  healed. 

Thus,  when  the  orb  of  day 
Revisits  earth  in  majesty  to  reign, 
The  moon  and  holy  stars  begin  to  wane  ; 

They  meekly  own  his  sway. 

In  their  appointed  hour 

How  faithfully  they  shone  and  gave  their  light. 
When,  but  for  them,  it  had  been  ravless  night  ! 

Theirs  was  a  borrowed  power. 

O  Father  !  grant  that  we 
May,  like  the  holy  stars,  shine  at  Thy  will, 
And  here  on  earth  Thy  purposes  fulfil, 

Drawing  our  light  from  Thee. 


KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE.  105 

And  should  it  be  Thy  will 

In  thy  sweet  service  we  should  faint  and  bleed, 
Yea,  if  our  heart's  best  blood  Thou,  God,  dost  need, 

Let  us  not  count  it  ill. 

O  !  be  all  else  forgot, 

Save,  as  with  Levi's  tribe  which  Thou  didst  choose, 
Thou  art  our  God  ;  though  all  beside  we  lose, 

Our  portion  and  our  lot. 


Three  hours  passed,  the  snow  had  ceased  to  fall, 
The  wind  had  told  its  message  and  was  still : 

Well  would  it  be  if  all  whom  God  doth  call, 

Like  these  mute  messengers,  should  do  His  will. 

The  moon  unwonted  radiance  did  throw ; 

It  seemed  as  if  she  longed  for  power  to  say, 
Remember  ye  who  suffer  here  below  : 

After  the  longest  night  breaks  forth  the  day. 

The  peace  and  light  in  which  the  earth  did  lie 

Seemed  to  have  found  their  way  to  Gertrude's  heart ; 

They  were  reflected  in  her  large  gray  eye, 
And  in  that  holy  calm  she  bore  her  part. 

Within  her  quiet  room  she  sat  alone  ; 

She  murmured,  "  Is  all  well  when  all  is  ill? 
He  loves  me  not,"  she  answered  with  a  moan  : 

"  Peace,  foolish  heart,  to-night  at  least  be  still. 


IO6  KASPAR   AND    GERTRl'DK. 

Yes,  I  am  quiet  now  ;  the  storm  is  stilled, 

And  over  me  his  strength  and  peace  have  flowed  : 

It  seems  he  with  his  spirit  mine  has  filled, — 
Has  lifted  from  my  life  its  heavy  load. 

O  Kaspar  !    in  thy  sunlight  darkness  dies  ; 

To  hope  and  faith  like  thine  my  doubts  must  yield  ; 
And,  though  the  tears  are  falling  from  my  eves, 

They  gently  flow,  and  by  them  I  am  healed. 

And  if,  through  him  whose  strength  helps  me  to  live, 

I  am  in  fetters  lying  at  his  feet, 
So  dear  my  conqueror,  I  do  forgive : 

I  murmur  not  at  pain,  but  count  it  sweet. 

A  hopeless  love  is  not  the  greatest  grief, 
A  wounded  heart  is  not  the  deepest  woe  ; 

Sometimes  we  find  this  sorrow  a  relief, 

The  burden  light  for  which  the  tears  can  flow. 

The  mind  and  soul  of  man  reserve  the  power 
To  probe  him  to  his  deepest  depths  of  woe  : 

Theirs  is  the  sharpest  cross,  the  darkest  hour, 
That  mortal  man  can  suffer  here  below. 

A  sorrow  of  the  heart  I've  seen  men  wear, 
And  count  it  joy,  plead  with  it  to  remain, 

Deem  it  a  burden  which  a  child  might  bear, 

Weighed  with  the  mind's  unrest,  the  soul's  fierce  pain. 


KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE.  IC>7 

Now  for  these  sorrows  of  the  soul  and  mind 
Our  God  hath  opened  halls  of  perfect  peace, 

Where  all  who  enter  shall  deliverance  find  ; 
Darkness  shall  vanish,  and  all  discord  cease. 

To  these  fair  temples  entrance  I  would  win, 

But  for  my  spirit  Kaspar  holds  the  key  ; 
My  hand  in  his,  then  I  can  pass  within  : 

To  him  the  entrance  at  all 'times  is  free. 

The  hour  must  come  for  me,  —  I  think,  for  all, 
When  to  our  God  we  come,  and  come  alone  ; 

But  in  our  weakness  human  aid  we  call : 
We  \vant  an  earthly  arm  around  us  thrown. 

That  arm  of  flesh  my  Kaspar  is  to  me, 
The  earthly  light  in  this  bewildered  brain, 

His  voice  the  music  whence  the  shadows  flee, 
Rocking  to  sleep  all  doubt,  unrest,  and  pain. 

That  spirit  dark  which  touched  my  mother's  life, 
Which  shook  so  rudely  that  else  perfect  mind, 

Which  made  her  walk  on  earth  a  wreary  strife, 
Deaf  to  all  pleasure,  to  all  beauty  blind, 

Has  laid  its  hand,  though  lightly,  upon  me. 

Thank  God,  each  day  the  veil  grows  yet  more  thin  ; 
My  chains  are  breaking,  I  am  almost  free  : 

The  demons  flee  the  mind  when  Christ  comes  in. 


IOS  KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE. 

How  well  I  do  remember  the  sad  day 

When  my  sweet  mother  called  me  to  her  side  ! 

A  few  last  words  she  wished  to  me  to  say  : 
They  were  the  last,  for  in  the  morn  she  died. 

'  Gertrude,  I  go  and  leave  you  here,'  she  said  : 
'  God  pardon  that  to  you  I  must  bequeath 

A  shadow  of  the  grief  that  bowed  mv  head  : 
If  not  for  that,  I  should  have  eeased  to  grieve. 

For  I  have  felt  the  cloud  lift  from  my  mind, 
As  God's  most  Holy  Spirit  rilled  my  soul  : 

Be  sure  that  all  who  seek  their  Lord  will  find, 
YVhate'er  their  sickness,  they  can  be  made  whole. 

I  wish  to  tell  you  of  the  friend  I  found, 
Who  ministered  unto  my  soul's  distress  ; 

In  deepest  gratitude  to  her  I'm  bound. 
Her  image  to  mv  heart  in  love  I  press. 

Look  at  this  picture,  Gertrude,'  then  she  said  : 
'  Than  this  was  ever  stronger,  gentler  face? 

It  seemed  this  weary  world  she  did  but  tread 
To  fold  all  suffering  in  her  embrace. 

Look  at  those  tender,  loving,  human  eyes, 
Open  and  wide  to  take  the  whole  world  in  ; 

Nought  seemed  to  baffle  her  or  give  surprise  ; 
She  saw  and  wept,  and  then  forgave  all  sin. 


KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE.  109 

Those  eyes  first  saw  the  light  beyond  the  seas, 
The  land  of  Martin  Luther  gave  her  birth  ; 

Not  born  in  wealth,  to  live  in  careless  ease  ; 
Child  of  the  people,  knowing  well  their  worth. 

A  worthy  child  of  that  most  noble  land  ; 

She  drank  the  spirit  of  the  nation's  best ; 
Able  to  follow  or  to  take  command, 

Of  joy  and  sorrow  both  had  borne  the  test. 

Gertrude,  what  brought  that  woman  from  her  home? 

I  do  believe  she  came  for  my  great  need  : 
She  said  she  hardly  knew  why  she  did  come  : 

But  all  unconsciously  our  spirits  plead. 

I  must  have  pulled  about  her  heart-strings  so, 
She  could  not  stay  ;  God  sent  her  unto  me  ; 

He  does  not  always  let  His  children  know 
What  He  appoints  for  them  to  do  and  be. 

Gertrude,  look  at  that  face  again,'  she  said  ; 

'  And  tell  me,  if  you  can,  who  has  the  right 
To  call  her  mother.      Though  her  soul  has  fled, 

She  left  behind  a  trail  of  living  light. 

Look  at  those  eyes  :  who  bears  them  now  on  earth  ? 

What  torch  was  lighted  from  that  steadv  flame? 
Who  can  look  there,  and  say,  I  owe  thee  birth? 

Who  has  the  right  to  bear  that  honored  name? 


IIO  KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE. 

Look  at  those  waving  lines  of  yellow  hair, 
What  other  brow  ends  in  such  golden  mist? 

I  think  an  angel's  ringers  wandered  there. 

And  each  fine  thread  most  lovingly  was  kissed. 


•6V 


Think  of  young  Kaspar  :   is  not  he  her  child? 

What  other  face  on  earth  such  glory  wears? 
Valiant  as  tender,  strong  as  undefiled, 

The  child  of  many  hopes  and  fervent  prayers. 

Young  Kaspar,  rilling  now  a  humble  place. 
Your  father's  trusted  and  most  faithful  clerk, 

I  sometimes  look  upon  tluft  royal  face, 
And  deem  he  is  too  noble  for  his  work. 

And  then  I  do  bethink,  The  soul  so  great. 
It  matters  little  what  the  hands  may  do  : 

The  noblest  in  the  lowest  places  wait ; 

They  would  go  higher  if  they  were  less  true. 

Gertrude,  five  months  ere  you  were  born,  he  came  ; 

His  eyes  first  drank  the  light;  e'en  from  his  birth 
It  seemed  as  if  the  baby-boy  might  claim 

The  right  to  welcome  you  unto  the  earth. 

One  day  he  laid  his  small  hand  on  your  head  ; 

He  smiled  as  if  the  baby  lips  might  say, 
If  this  should  prove  a  thorny  path  to  tread, 

I'll  be  your  friend,  and  help  you  day  by  day. 


KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE.  I  I  I 

I  saw  the  gesture,  and  his  mother  too  ; 

I,  smiling,  said,  Perhaps  your  child  will  be 
Unto  my  little  one,  dear  friend,  what  you 

So  faithfully  have  always  been  to  me.' 

My  mother  paused  a  moment ;  then  she  drew 
Me  closer  to  her  side,  and  said,  '  I  grieve 

For  the  inheritance  I  give  to  you,  — 

The  shadow  my  bewildered  mind  must  leave. 

The  shadow  yours,  the  substance  was  with  me  ; 

Therefore  less  fierce  the  battle  you  will  wage  : 
I  weep  that  even  that  with  you  must  be, 

I  did  my  best  to  soften  and  assuage. 

There  is  disorder  of  the  mind  so  great, 

We  cannot  look  on  earth  to  see  it  end  : 
Mine  was  not  that ;  all  said  it  would  abate  ; 

At  last  I  felt  God's  healing  hand  descend. 

But  still  some  taint  must  pass  into  your  blood 

Through  me,  I  feared,  though  mercy  rounds  God's  law  : 

He  opened  at  your  side  a  healing  flood, 

Whence  strength  for  soul  and  body  you  could  draw. 

I  begged  my  friend  to  take  you  to  her  heart, 
Be  mother  to  her  boy  and  you  the  same  ; 

Most  faithfully  she  did  fulfil  her  part ; 

She  was  your  mother  all  but  in  the  name. 


112  KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE. 

Be  sure  something  of  her  in  you  remains  ; 

It  is  the  best,  the  purest,  the  most  true  : 
The  sweetest  drop  that  flows  in  all  your  veins 

Is  that  which  Kaspar's  mother  gave  to  you.' 

Those  were  the  last  words  that  my  mother  spoke  ; 

Indeed,  it  was  for  her  a  happy  day 
When  from  its  walls  of  flesh  the  spirit  broke, 

To  realms  of  perfect  peace  at  last  found  way. 

O  Kaspar,  Kaspar !  well  hast  thou  fulfilled 
The  hope,  the  prophecy,  those  two  did  make  ! 

But  much,  I  fear,  'tis  done  because  they  willed, 
Not  for  myself,  'tis  not  for  Gertrude's  sake. 

A  truer  friend  thy  mother  has  not  been 
Unto  my  mother  than  thou  art  to  me  ; 

But  surely  blind  the  eyes  that  have  not  seen 
I  am  much  more  than  friend,  Kaspar,  to  thee. 

Bertha  thinks  I  despise  thy  humble  birth  ; 

She  does  not  know  my  only  cause  for  pride 
Is  that  we  drank  from  the  same  fount  on  earth, 

And  in  our  tender  youth  grew  side  by  side. 

Yes,  God  be  praised  !   I'd  rather  have  that  tie 
Between  us  two,  would  rather  be  thy  friend, 

Than  be  a  wife  to  one,  however  high, 

Though  from  a  line  of  kings  he  should  descend." 


KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE.  113 

A  year  sped  silently  ;  we  cannot  see, 

Perhaps,  from  day  to  day,  the  wondrous  change 

Which  passes  o'er  a  life  ;  though  clear  may  be 
These  eyes,  they  have  at  best  a  narrow  range. 

No  day  can  pass  that  does  not  leave  its  trace 
Upon  the  soul,  known  well  to  God  above  : 

He  sees  the  slow,  sure  workings  of  His  grace, 
He  hears  the  faintest  answer  to  His  love. 

Our  grosser  vision  dates  by  months  and  years  ; 

These  earthly  eyes  to  daily  growth  are  blind  : 
The  tree  o'er  which  we  mourned,  watered  with  tears, 

Is  full  of  vigor,  bearing  fruit,  we  find. 

Now  Kaspar's  face,  as  quickly  he  did  move, 
Told  many  thoughts,  each  rising  in  its  turn  ; 

Now  doubtful  seemed  :  he  cried,  "  What  do  they  prove, 
These  words  ?     Their  meaning  I  have  yet  to  learn. 

She  writes,  Determined  now  what  course  to  take, 
But  wish  your  sanction.     That  is  strange  for  her ; 

She  could  not  formerly  decision  make 
Without  my  voice  to  say  she  did  not  err. 

When  I  review  the  past,  I  see  how  strong 

The  trembling  feet  have  grown,  how  clear  the  mind  : 

Tormenting  doubts  and  fears  no  more  belong 
To  her  ;   that  spectral  train  she  leaves  behind. 


114  KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE. 

I  did  not  think  such  peace  would  fill  her  soul  ; 

I  feared  the  cloud  that  rested  on  the  brain. 
Though  yielding  much  to  God's  and  man's  control 

Would  never  quite  dissolve  in  healing  rain. 

But  thus  it  is :  and  now  she  seems  to  stand 
Upon  a  rock,  the  troubled  waters  past. 

IIo\v  sweet  it  was  to  stretch  a  helping  hand, 
Which  she,  in  childlike  confidence,  held  fast ! 

The  discord  in  the  instrument  is  stilled, 

The  jarring  string  in  perfect  tune  responds  ; 

With  harmony  the  spirit  now  is  filled. 
By  force  of  melody  has  burst  its  bonds. 

How  sweet  it  was  to  feel  that  hand  in  mine, 
To  hear  the  cry  for  help  from  that  loved  voice, 

To  be  the  tree  unto  that  clinging  vine  ! 

But  canst  thou  not,  my  heart,  in  truth  rejoice 

That  she  is  able,  not  to  stand  alone, 
Too  true  a  woman  to  do  that  is  she, 

But  that  she  finds  a  strength  which  is  her  own, 
Draws  life  from  a  far  higher  source  than  me? 

Why,  yes,  for  her,  indeed,  I  can  be  glad, 
And  thank  my  God  in  truth  for  her  release  ; 

I  cannot  think,  that  surely  would  be  sad, 

That  now  her  love  and  trust  in  me  will  cease. 


KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE.  115 

Is  Gertrude  happy?     She  is  never  gay  ; 

She  lias  the  look  of  one  who  bows  her  head 
Beneath  some  grief,  as  if  the  heart  might  say, 

'Tis  well  with  me,  though  hope  and  joy  are  fled 

I've  seen  the  soft,  gray  eves  o'erflow  with  tears  : 
Before  they  fell,  a  sadder  look  was  there  ; 

Bertha  has  filled  my  heart  with  many  fears. 
Why  do  I  listen  ?     How  can  Bertha  dare  ? 

She  says  a  strong,  deep  love  now  fills  her  breast, 

A  love  unrecognized  and  unreturned. 
How  I  have  longed  to  put  that  to  the  test ! 

To  know  the  worst,  the  best,  my  soul  has  yearned., 

O  Gertrude,  Gertrude  !  sometimes  I  have  thought 
That  it  was  Kaspar,  I,  thy  faithful  friend. 

Ah,  no  !  the  sober  daylight  truth  has  brought, 
And  my  sweet  dream  of  hope  has  found  its  end. 

Who  speaks  that  truth  ?  who  breaks  that  dream  of  joy  ? 

Is  it  not  Bertha?  —  is  it  not  her  voice? 
Why  should  her  bitterness  mv  hopes  destrov  ? 

Be  brave,  my  heart :  perhaps  them  shalt  rejoice. 

Now  Bertha  flouts  the  thought  that  I  might  be 
To  Gertrude  somewhat  dearer  than  a  friend. 

She  says  that  Gertrude  thinks  to  wed  with  me 
Would  be  to  stoop  ;  she  could  not  thus  descend. 


Il6  KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE. 

She  judges  meanly  of  that  woman's  soul, 
Noble  enough  a  beggar's  love  to  pri/.e  : 

Love  is  too  great  to  bear  sueh  base  control  ; 

It  clears  the  heart,  though  it  may  blind  the  eyes. 

No  thought  of  Bertha's  shall  intrude  between 
My  soul  and  Gertrude's,  as  we  speak  to-night ; 

And,  when  the  heart  of  each  is  fully  seen. 
Perhaps  this  darkness  may  be  turned  to  light. 

Oh,  how  this  hope  my  languid  blood  has  stirred  ! 

It  leaps  within  my  veins  :    my  heart,  be  still  !  " 
One  moment  more,  and  at  her  side  she  heard, 

"  Gertrude,  I  come  to  know  and  do  your  will." 

"  Rather  my  wish,  dear  Kaspar,  not  my  will ; 

And  yet  I  wrote  Determined,  —  did  I  not? 
I  thought  I  should  your  heart  with  wonder  fill, 

That  you  would  say  I  had  myself  forgot. 

But,  no  :  'tis  only  I  have  grown  more  strong ; 

The  sun  has  risen  on  my  long,  dark  night ; 
I  wish  to  hear  you  say  I  am  not  wrong,  — 

To  know  you  think  I  have  decided  right. 

Kaspar,  the  clouds  have  lifted  from  my  soul ; 

I  think  you  read  the  sunlight  on  my  face  ; 
The  mighty,  loving  Hand  which  maketh  whole 

Upon  the  outward  form  we  always  trace." 


KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE.  I  I  7 

"  Gertrude,  of  strength  and  peace  you  often  speak; 

I  do  rejoice,  with  you,  it  thus  should  be. 
Why  is  it,  then,  the  body  grows  so  weak, 

These  hollow  eyes,  this  ashen  face  I  see? 

Gertrude,  your  heart  is  filled  with  secret  pain  ; 

Above  it  you  too  bravely  strive  to  rise  ; 
From  me  to  hide  it,  you  but  strive  in  vain  ; 
x    I  read  it  by  my  own,  and  in  your  eyes. 

Speak,  and  let  Kaspar  share  this  grief  with  you  ; 

My  hand  before  has  had  some  skill  to  heal : 
Have  I  not  been  a  faithful  friend  and  true? 

And  if  I  may  not  cure,  at  least  can  feel." 

"  Kaspar,  I  do  not  think  I  could  refuse 

Request  of  yours  with  which  I  could  complv  : 

But  now  my  own  discretion  I  must  use  ; 
In  part  I  grant  your  wish,  in  part  deny. 

Kaspar,  a  woman  turns  her  face  away, 
And  so  from  you  my  eyes  I  must  avert,"1 

When  she  must  own  the  bitter  truth,  and  say, 
'Tis  here,  here  in  my  inmost  heart,  I'm  hurt. 

I  five  mv  heart  to  one  who  loves  me  not : 

c">  J 

It  is  a  bitter  grief,  but  it  must  be  ; 
Kaspar,  you  turn  away  :  have  you  forgot 
You  urged  this  explanation  upon  me? 


IlS  KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE. 

Let  not  your  heart  for  me  too  deeply  grieve  ; 

Remember  I  have  strength  inv  pain  to  hear  ; 
In  Him  who  loves  us  all  I  do  helieve  ; 

I  lean  upon  His  heart,  —  thul  comfort  there." 

k'  Gertrude,  go  on  :   I  did  but  flinch,"  he  said  ; 

'•  'Tis  natural  that  I  should  feel  your  grief: 
I  hoped  to  turn  the  arrow  from  vour  head  ; 

I  trusted  I  could  give  to  you  relief. 

O  Gertrude  !   is  he  then  beloved  so  well? 

Ls  this  pale  face  the  sign  of  your  heart's  woe? 
How  long  has  it  been  thus?  I  prav  vou  tell  : 

Is  there  no  hope  you  will  this  love  outgrow?" 

'•  Hope  !    hope  that  I  shall  love  him  less,"  she  cried  : 
"  I  would  not  lose  my  love  to  cure  my  pain  : 

It  is  my  boast,  mv  honor,  and  mv  pride. 

That  in  my  heart  such  royal  guest  doth  reign. 

I'd  rather  take  in  friendship  that  dear  hand. 

Hear  one  small  word  of  kindness  from  that  voice. 

Than  link  my  name  to  any  in  the  land  : 

He  is  mv  heart's  unswerving,  final  choice." 

A  ray  of  hope  flashed  up  in  Kaspar's  face  : 

He  bent  his  head,  and  whispered,  '•  Speak  his  name 

Perhaps  you  are  beloved,  and  fail  to  trace 

The  answer  such  a  love  as  vours  must  claim." 


KASPAR   AND    GERTRUDE,  11 

He  held  his  breath  to  wait  for  her  reply ; 

She  rose,  and  crossed  her  hands  upon  her  breast : 
"  I  am  too  proud,"  she  said  ;   "  cannot  comply  ; 

You  must  not  put  our  friendship  to  such  test." 

"  I  will  not  urge  it,  Gertrude  ;  'tis  as  well 

I  should  not  know  ;  but  are  you  sure  that  he 
Does  not  return  your  love  ?     You  cannot  tell ; 

Under  some  great  delusion  you  may  be." 

* 

•'  O  Kaspar !  would  it  might  be  as  you  say, 
My  eyes  alone  perhaps  might  error  make  ; 

But  there  is  one  who  sees  him  day  by  day, 

That  judgment  and  those  words  I'm  bound  to  take. 

Ah,  no  !  he  is  too  great,  too  good,  for  me, 
Too  far  above  ;  I've  fixed  my  love  too  high." 

She  did  not  look  at  Kaspar,  —  did  not  see 
The  color  leave  his  cheek,  the  light  his  eye. 

His  hope  was  dead,  her  words  the  seal  had  set ; 

His  soul  to  God  for  strength  and  mercy  cried, 
'•  Help  me  to  comfort  her,  myself  forget :  " 

lie  took  her  hand,  and  drew  her  to  his  side. 

«. 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  "  'tis  one  I  do  not  know  ; 

He  in  another  sphere  than  mine  doth  move  ; 
lie's  great  and  good,  you  say  ;  'tis  doubtless  so  : 
He  must  be  noble  who  has  won  your  love. 


I2O  KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE. 

Gertrude,  I  do  remember  what  you  say  : 

I  know  the  arm  that  draws  from  God  its  strength. 

Though  it  may  fall  in  weakness  for  a  dav. 
Is  sure  to  win  the  victory  at  length. 

I  know  the  eyes  that  take  from  heaven  their  light 
Will  suffer  God  at  last  to  dry  their  tears : 

No  heart  can  dwell  in  constant,  hopeless  night. 
That  leans  on  Him,  whate'er  its  griefs  and  fears. 

No  sorrow  linked  to  heaven  by  a  chain, 

One  end  in  God's  own  hand,  the  other  here. 

That  is  not  lightened  of  one  half  its  pain  ; 
God  draws  us  thus  unto  Himself  so  near. 

So,  Gertrude,  well  with  you  I  know  'twill  be  ; 

Well  is  it  now,  indeed,  with  mind  and  soul : 
It  is  the  bodv  breaks ;   'tis  sad  to  see  : 

Is  there  nought,  Gertrude,  that  will  make  you  whole  ?  " 

"  'Tis  of  that.  Kaspar.  that  I  wish  to  speak  : 

I  think  a  soldier,  wounded  on  the  field. 
Should  take  no  shame,  if  he  to  fly  should  seek, 

At  least  until  his  cruel  wound  be  healed. 

Sometimes  upon  ourselves,  I  think,  we're  hard, 
And  in  the  hour  of  weakness  are  too  stern  : 

Our  Father  with  more  mercy  doth  regard 

His  children  while  such  lessons  thev  must  learn. 


KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE.  121 

I  think,"  —  she  faltered,  turned  away  her  eyes, — 
"I  think  I'm  blinded  by  excess  of  light ; 

Across  the  seas,  beneath  less  brilliant  skies, 
I  shall  recover  strength,  perhaps,  and  sight. 

I  trust  the  day  will  come  when  I  can  live 

Near  him  again,  and  yet  be  strong  and  calm  ; 

But  now  so  weak,  Kaspar,  kind  friend,  forgive  : 
lie  does  not  bless  me  now,  he  does  me  harm. 

Kaspar,  last  night  your  mother  came  to  me, — 
Nav,  do  not  start,  —  came  to  me  in  a  dream  : 

She  said,  '  All  is  not  well  with  you,  I  see  ; 

Listen,  obey,  though  hard  my  words  may  seem. 

Mv  child,  I  wish  you  to  go  hence,'  she  said, 
'  And  leave  awhile  one  who  is  loved  so  well ; 

I  lav  my  hand  in  blessing  on  your  head  ; 

You  will  come  back,  the  rest  I  must  not  tell. 

But  now  across  the  seas,  unto  the  land 

AYhich  gave  me  birth,  I  pray  you  take  your  way, 

To   join  yourself  unto  that  holy  band 

Of  faithful  women,  working  night  and  day 

To  learn  to  minister  with  all  their  skill 

To  every  form  of  sorrow  and  of  pain, 
That  not  a  wound  may  gape  they  cannot  fill, 

That  not  one  human  voice  may  crv  in  vain. 


122  KASPAR   AND   GERTRUDE. 

Go,  learn  of  them  ;  tlie  holiest,  wisest  school 

Christ's  followers  and  earth's  sutlbrers  can  attend. 
And,  ministering  there,  make  good  the  rule. 

In  healing  others'  griefs  our  own  do  end.' 

i 
She  stooped,  and  on  my  brow  her  lips  did  press  ; 

'  I  have  not  asked  you  to  forget,'  she  said  ; 
'  I  never  bade  you  try  to  love  him  less, 

But  only  to  God's  will  to  bow  your  head. 

Love's  not  a  plant  that  we  can  prune  and  trim  ; 

Only  make  God  the  first,  His  will  supreme  ; 
But  do  not  let  the  earthlv  love  grow  dim  :  ' 

She  vanished  ;  I  awoke,  'twas  but  a  dream. 

But  is  it  not  a  dream  I  must  obev? 

Should  we  not  take  our  messages  of  peace, 
Come  how  they  will,  in  any  form  thev  may? 

A  dream  might  show  a  captive  his  release." 

"  Gertrude,  I  think  it  is  the  school  you  need  ; 

'Twill  soothe  and  strengthen  and  uplift  vou  too  ; 
You  will  return  to  carry  out  in  deed 

The  work  which  they  have  taught  you  there  to  do. 

The  loss  to  me,  how  great  I  need  not  sav  : 

But,  Gertrude,  will  your  heart  not  vvisji  to  hear 

Tidings  of  him  when  you  are  far  away, 

That  he  is  well,  he  to  your  heart  so  dear?  " 


KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE.  123 

'•  Let  that  pass,  Kaspar  ;  write  that  you  are  strong 
And  well  and  happy,  you  and  Bertha  too. 

Be  sure  that  Gertrude  will  not  stay  too  long 
Exiled  from  Kaspar,  friend  beloved  and  true." 

••  I  will  write,  Gertrude  ;  if  I  cannot  say 

That  I  am  happy,  I  will  say  I'm  well ; 
That  God  is  here  :   'tis  hard  to  call  it  day 

When  Gertrude  goes,  and  I  must  say  farewell." 


Twelve  moons  had  risen  on  the  castled  Rhine, 

Twelve  moons  had  lighted  Kaspar's  western  home 

He  cried,  "  Kind  moon,  on  her,  on  me  to  shine, 
Thou  wast  with  her,  and  now  to  me  art  come." 

And  when  from  him  she  did  withdraw  her  light, 
lie  cried,  "  Go,  shine  on  her  across  the  sea  : 

I  murmur  not  that  I  am  left  in  night ; 

If  well  with  her,  it  is  not  dark  with  me." 

The  moon  looks  down  on  them  together  now  ; 

Gertrude  has  come  in  safety  home  again  ; 
Both  grief  and  joy  are  written  on  each  brow, 

They  kneel  together  at  a  couch  of  pain. 

Far  whiter  and  more  wasted  Bertha's  face 

Than  when  we  looked  upon  her  features  last : 

The  hand  of  death  we  there  can  plainly  trace, 
The  fluttering  breath  comes  painfully  and  fast. 


124  KASPAR    AXD    GERTRUDE. 

"  Kaspar,  draw  near ;  for  I  have  much  to  say, 
Much  to  be  pardoned,  much  I  must  reveal : 

I  wrote  to  Gertrude  ;  begged,  without  delay, 
She  would  return,  that  I  to  her  might  kneel, 

And  beg  my  cruel  thoughts  she  would  forgive, 
My  gross  injustice,  sneering  disbelief: 

I  felt  it  was  not  long  I  had  to  live  ; 

I  wished  to  give  my  pent-up  heart  relief. 

Look  down  upon  me,  Gertrude,  with  those  eves, 
Those  mild,  forgiving  eyes  of  solemn  gray, 

Too  meek  to  wear  the  color  of  the  skies  ; 
Bend  nearer,  Gertrude,  I  have  much  to  say. 

Something  I  have  to  whisper  in  your  ear. 

Something  to  fill  those  shaded  eyes  with  light, 
'Twill  be  so  sweet,  I  have  but  little  fear 

I  shall  be  loved  again,  forgiven  quite. 

What  to  your  heart  would  be  the  dearest  sound, — 
The  melody  most  precious  to  your  ear? 

Would  it  not  be  to  tell  you  I  had  found 
You  are  beloved  bv  him- to  vou  so  dear? 

There  never  was  a  dav  in  all  his  life 

He  did  not  love  vou  with  a  perfect  love  : 

He  did  not  ask  vou  to  become  his  wife, 

Because  he  failed  through  me  your  heart  to  prove. 


KASPAR    AXD    GERTRUDE.  125 

Mv  bitterness  drew  clown  before  his  eyes 

A  veil  through  which  your  love  he  could  not  see  : 

I  said  you  were  too  cold,  too  proud,  too  wise, 
To  wed  with  one  so  humble,  poor  as  he. 

Your  noble  heart  he  urged  me  oft  to  own  ; 

He  tried  to  make  me  just,  but  tried  in  vain  : 
I  said  'twas  pity,  sympathy  alone, 

With  which  you  looked  upon  his  love  and  pain. 

I  did  believe  that  it  was  even  so  ; 

My  bitter  spirit  closed  my  inward  eye  ; 
My  pride  so  great,  your  worth  I  could  not  know : 

I  did  not  wilfully  invent  a  lie. 

It  is  the  spirit  we  should  guard  so  well, 

To  keep  the  portals  of  the  heart  should  seek  ; 

For  as  it  is  with  them,  in  heaven  or  hell, 

Our  words  do  show,  for  out  of  them  we  speak. 

I  could  not  bear  his  love  for  you  to  own  ; 

I  could  not  bear  to  think  his  noble  life 
Had  at  the  very  feet  of  one  been  thrown, 

Who,  as  I  thought,  would  scorn  to  be  his  wife. 

So  bitter,  so  unjust  each  word,  each  thought, 
He  ceased  at  last  to  speak  of  you  to  me  ; 

I  hoped  some  change  within  his  heart  was  wrought, 
Exulted  in  the  thought  that  he  was  free. 


126  KASPAH    AND    GliRTKL'DK. 

lie  bore  so  bravelv.  gentlv,  all  his  pain. 

Never  to  gloom  and  black  despair  did  vield  : 
I  trusted  that  he  saw  'twas  quite-  in  vain. 

I  even  felt  that  the  old  wound  was  healed. 

The  drops  of  blood  that  fell  I  did  not  see  ; 

I  onlv  saw  the  calmness  of  his  face  : 
The  nights  of  agony  were  hid  from  me  : 

The  peace  that  came  with  morning  I  could  trace. 

Oh,  careless,  blinded  eyes,  that  see  but  part. 

Then  sit  in  judgment  on  the  soul  of  man  : 
Call  a  man  happy  with  a  broken  heart. 

Because  he  makes  of  worst  the  best  he  can  ! 

And  so  his  sweet  submission,  all  the  while. 

Caused  me  to  err :   I  could  not  understand 
That  he  could  suffer  still,  and  yet  could  smile. 

And  over  grief  maintain  such  strange  command. 

And  so,  when  you  did  ask  me  of  his  state, 
I  said  that  he  was  happv.  well,  and  gav  : 

Mv  answer  you  so  anxiously  did  wait, 

It  seemed  you  did  not  simplv  ask,  but  prav. 

I  hoped  I  spoke  the  truth,  and  yet  did  feel 
Some  penitence,  as  o'er  your  troubled  face 

I  saw  a  deeper  shade  of  sorrow  steal, 

And  in  your  voice  a  sadder  tone  could  trace. 


KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE.  127 

The  thought  rose  up,  Perhaps  I  judged  you  ill ; 

Perhaps  the  rich  were  noble  as  the  poor ; 
My  better  nature  I  at  once  did  still ; 

My  heart  had  opened,  but  I  closed  the  door. 

Kaspar,  your  sister  you  will  scarce  believe, 
When  I  reveal  what  passed  between  us  two  : 

She  said  that  verv  soon  she  meant  to  leave 

Her  home  ;  her  purpose  was  approved  by  you. 

Kaspar,  I  wish  I  could  forget  that  hour ! 

You  well  remember  at  that  time  her  look  : 
She  seemed  a  timid,  drooping,  gentle  flower, 

That  by  a  tempest  had  been  rudely  shook. 

I  said  that  I  was  glad  she  wished  at  last 

To  share  the  burden  of  this  bleeding  earth  : 

In  sloth,  frivolity,  her  youth  had  passed  ; 

She  had  been  dreaming  from  her  very  birth. 

And  yet,  I  said,  The  holiest  deeds  of  love 
Are  those  not  done  in  sight  of  all  the  world  : 

This  step  does  not  the  purest  motive  prove  : 
My  utmost  bitterness  at  her  I  hurled. 

She  rose  ;  no  anger  in  her  face  did  burn, 

Only  a  growing  and  intense  surprise  : 
At  last  she  spoke,  but  fron\  me  did  not  turn 

The  solemn  search  of  those  bewildered  eyes. 


128  KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE. 

'And  arc  you  Kaspar's  sister?     Can  it  be 

The  blood  that  flows  in  him  and  you  the  same? 

'Tis  some  delusion,  that  I  clearly  see  ; 

You  have  no  right  to  eall  you  by  his  name.' 

"  Gertrude,  no  anger  could  have  moved  me  so  ; 

No  other  weapon  could  have  sunk  so  deep  ; 
Your  words  my  wretched  heart  to  me  did  show  : 

My  cruelty  most  truly  I  did  weep. 

No  other  shaft  had  reached  but  that  you  sent ; 

It  smote  and  smote,  and  stung  me  more  and  more 
Unto  the  one  weak  spot  the  arrow  went, 

The  gentler  nature  never  touched  before. 

Was  I  so  cruel,  bitter  then,  I  thought, 
It  could  be  doubted  I  was  Kaspar's  kin  ? 

Your  words  both  shame  and  sorrow  in  me  wrought, 
Showed  to  my  heart  its  bitterness  and  sin. 

Give  me  another  heart,  O  God  !  I  cried  ; 

Make  me,  like  Kaspar,  loving,  just,  and  mild  ; 
Expel  this  bitterness,  injustice,  pride, 

And  make  me  humble  as  a  little  child. 

Help  me  to  see  the  best  and  not  the  worst, 
To  find  some  good  in  every  child  of  Thine  ; 

Cast  out  this  spirit,  evil  and  accurst ; 

Fill  with  Thyself  this  troubled  heart  of  mine. 


KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE.  129 

And  so,  at  last,  my  Father  helping  me, 

I  looking  up  to  Kaspar's  gentle  face, 
The  evil  spirits  from  my  heart  did  flee, 

And  holy  angels  came  to  take  their  place. 

And,  when  the  inward  eye  began  to  clear, 

I  first  began  to  read  your  soul  aright : 
When  all  is  dark  within,  it  doth  appear 

That  all  around  is  wrapped  in  equal  night. 

How  can  a  blind  eye  read  a  human  soul  ? 

I  had  been  blind  through  bitterness  and  pride  : 
The  heart  of  man,  that  strange  and  mystic  scroll, 

Fi'om  an  unloving  gaze  itself  doth  hide. 

I  saw  that  I  had  failed  to  read  each  heart, 

To  each  a  wrong  interpretation  gave  ; 
I  saw  that  I  had  thrust  your  lives  apart : 

From  further  grief  my  word  alone  would  save. 

Kaspar,  you  said  that  Gertrude  left  her  home 
Because  of  one  loved  far  too  well  for  peace  : 

Did  not  the  thought,  my  Kaspar,  ever  come 
That  you  did  hold  the  prisoner's  release? 

Gertrude,  was  it  not  Kaspar  that  you  loved? 

Was  it  not  Kaspar  from  whose  side  you  fled  ? 
That  I  am  right  is  it  not  clearly  proved 

By  that  flushed  cheek,  by  that  averted  head  ? 

9 


130  KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE. 

Speak,  Gertrude,  now  his  love  for  you  I've  told, 
No  maidenly  reserve  your  lips  must  seal : 

If  it  be  as  I  think,  you  must  be  bold 

To  own  in  words  the  love  your  heart  doth  feel. 

The  letter  that  I  wrote  a  month  ago, 

Beseeching  you  would  come  without  delay, 

That  I  might  speak  that  which  you  now  do  know 
How  did  that  letter  move  your  heart,  I  pray  ?  " 

No  longer  Gertrude  turns  her  head  away, 
Her  eyes  are  firmly  fixed  on  Kaspar's  face  : 

Smiling,  she  says,  "  My  hand  in  yours  I  lav  : 
Here,  Kaspar,  at  your  side  I  take  my  place. 

It  seems  I'm  summoned  to  a  bar  to  plead 

Or  guilty  or  not  guilty  of  a  sin  : 
In  such  a  case,  the  prisoner  doth  need 

Outward  support  as  well  as  peace  within. 

Bertha,  in  mine  I  take  your  brother's  hand  ; 

I  hold  it  fast  and  to  my  heart  I  press  ; 
Here  firmly,  proudly  do  I  take  my  stand, 

That  I  am  jjuilty  of  the  crime  confess. 

Most  guilty  I,  proud  am  I  of  my  sin, 

Prouder  to  love  your  brother  than  a  King  ; 

Proud  that  I  loved,  hopeless  his  love  to  win  : 
Yes,  I  am  guilty  of  the  charge  you  bring. 


KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE. 

I  loved  him  on  in  hope  and  then  in  fear, 
And  then  I  loved  him  better  in  despair  ; 

I  did  not  love  him  less  as  God  drew  near  ; 
I  saw  him  in  my  Father,  loved  him  there. 

And  yet  I  felt  that  I  must  leave  his  side, 
That  I  must  live  awhile  alone  with  God  ; 

That,  even  as  it  was  with  Him  who  died, 
By  all  the  wine-press  must  alone  be  trod. 

I  loved  so  much,  I  felt  he  was  a  screen 

'Tween  me  and  God,  who  must  be  first  and  best 

No  form,  however  bright,  must  stand  between, 
If  earth  would  be  of  heaven  fully  blest. 

I  loved  so  much,  I  found  I  could  not  sing 
In  harmony  the  song  God  loves  to  hear  : 

Through  all  I  heard  one  note  discordant  ring, 
One  chord  too  loud,  the  earthly  love  too  dear. 

And  so  I  fled  ;  and,  living  in  that  school, 
Striving  each  day  with  holy  deeds  to  fill, 

I  proved  the  truth  of  that  unfailing  rule,  — 
They  learn  to  love  their  God  who  do  His  will. 

Bertha,  your  letter  found  me  at  the  side 

Of  one  who  soon  would  bid  farewell  to  earth  : 

She  murmured,  '  Leave  me  not,  with  me  abide  : 
One  at  my  death,  but  many  at  my  birth. 


'32  KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE. 

I've  seen  all  phases  of  this  wondrous  life  ; 

I  have  known  joy  and  sorrow,  hope  and  fear ; 
I  have  been  mother,  sister,  friend,  and  wife  ; 

They  all  have  gone  ;  but  God,  —  my  God  is  here. 

Mine  was  a  most  rebellious  heart,'  she  said  ; 

'  Earth  was  so  bright  I  could  not  look  at  heaven  : 
Woe  after  woe  must  fall  upon  the  head, 

Ere  such  a  heart  as  mine  to  God  is  given. 

'Tis  not  in  vain  the  cross  on  you  was  laid  : 
Sorrow  in  you  fully  its  work  has  done  ; 

And,  when  a  heart  true  to  its  God  is  made, 
Grief  flies,  because  the  victory  is  won.' 

Within  her  closing  eyes  shone  wondrous  light ; 

She  fixed  them  long  and  lovingly  on  me  : 
She  said,  'At  death  comes  often  second  sight, 

The  dying  eyes  sometimes  the  future  see. 

I  see  a  joy  come  down  from  God's  own  hand 
To  crown  your  head,  because  your  heart  is  His  : 

He  blesseth  those  who  would  at  His  command 
Resign  whate'er  they  have  of  earthly  bliss.' 

Then  singing  Anton  Ulrica's  glorious  hymn, 

That  the  light  breaks  when  we  enough  have  wept, 

The  tired,  earthly  eyes  began  to  dim  : 

They  closed  so  gently  that  I  thought  she  slept. 


KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE.  133 

Bertha,  I  read  your  letter  there  and  then  ; 

Your  words  and  hers  chimed  on  within  my  soul : 
I  thought  I  heard  the  angels  cry,  Amen  ! 

The  mind  and  heart  were  sick,  but  He  makes  \vhole. 

Kaspar,  your  hands  are  laid  upon  my  head  : 
That  was  the  crown  of  joy  she  saw  for  me, 

The  woman  loved  of  Kaspar,  to  him  wed, 

More  blessed  than  any  child  of  earth  could  be. 

She  said  the  light  would  break  upon  my  life,  — 
'Tis  breaking  now  :  I  look  upon  your  face. 

O  Kaspar !  when  I  call  myself  your  wife, 
For  greater  joy  on  earth  remains  no  place. 

Now,  Bertha,  live,  oh  live  to  see  us  blessed  ; 

You've  rolled  this  burden  from  your  heart  away  ; 
The  bitterness  and  sin  are  all  confessed  ; 

Health  will  return,  for  it  we  all  shall  pray. 

For  you  have  lived  nobility  to  see 

Is  with  the  high  and  low,  the  rich  and  poor : 

Man  must  be  great  if  there  God's  spirit  be  ; 
He  enters  the  king's  gate,  the  peasant's  door. 

For  you  have  seen  a  heart  may  be  as  true, 
Though  it  may  beat  beneath  a  jewelled  vest, 

As  if  it  by  a  humble  roadside  grew, 

When  Christ  has  found  a  home  within  the  breast. 


134  KASPAR    AND    GERTRUDE. 

In  different  stations  we  must  serve  our  King  ; 

On  various  errands  we  are  called  to  move  ; 
And  yet  one  song  of  praise  we  all  must  sing, 

One  livery  we  all  must  wear,  of  Love." 


THE  EXD. 


•:    Print.-  I  by  John  \Vil»..ii  anil  S,.ii, 


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